


Lost & Found

by MadcapRomantic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels, Angst, DCBB2015, Ghosts, Gore, Hunter AU, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Soulmates, Violence, brief mention of past suicide attempts/thoughts, depictions of explicit sexual situations, fictional drug use, minor wing kink, not safe headspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadcapRomantic/pseuds/MadcapRomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is a man on the run from his family and his past, hiding the secret of his angelic nature. Dean Winchester is a man out for retribution for the death of his mother, harboring secrets of his own. Their worlds collide in the seedy back room of a strip joint, amidst a mess of blood and glitter, and each find themselves inexplicably drawn to the other. But secrets are hard things to keep, especially when their lives are on the line...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings, ladies and gentlemen, and allow me the chance to welcome you to my entry for the DeanCas Big Bang 2015, Lost & Found. I will start off my warning you that this is not necessarily intended to be a happy story. This piece contains some darker material, as well as thoughts/idealizations, and isn't exactly meant for the faint of heart. That isn't to say that it's all a down-hill battle; there are reprieves scattered about, for I am of the mind that one cannot easily find joy unless one has known suffering; if the light never faded, why would we ever fear the dark?
> 
> That being said, however, I do offer my sincerest thanks to those of you who will give this mess at least a try.
> 
> Any an all triggers will be tagged, but will appear at the -END- of each chapter, so that those of you who worry if the piece might be going into a bit of a darker place might make sure they are able to handle it, and those that wish it to remain spoiler free can do so. If you've found that I've failed to properly tag a chapter, please let me know - I am not perfect, and I make mistakes and overlook things from time to time.
> 
> Thank you, anyone and everyone, for giving my story at least a good, old-fashioned try.
> 
> My fantastic artist, [Maria](http://bitchjerks.co.vu/), is responsible for all art, and is a god-damned angel.

For the most part, Castiel felt that there wasn’t much left in the world that could shake him, that there wasn’t an abundance of anything, really, that he was no longer desensitized to. He’d been a photojournalist in war-torn countries, toiled away at slaughterhouses to make rent, and, most recently, he takes off his clothes in front of others just to eat. Stripping, much like nearly every job he’d taken since he left home, had never been his first choice. In fact, neither was it his second, third, or seventy-fifth. But, when compared to what he escaped from - well, Castiel felt lucky that he’d managed to keep himself breathing.

Not that, given his predicament, he felt much other than blind panic.

After all, watching a man’s head get blown clean off while in the middle of a lap dance would make even those with the most solid of foundations tremble and quake.

 Castiel fell backwards, his lungs unable to take in enough air to scream. His face, painted with blood spatter and - God help him - brain matter and bone chips, felt hot as he landed, hard, atop the wooden floorboards. His arm caught the table as he fell, and the champagne glasses and bottle were thrown into the air. And Castiel watched, almost as if everything were in slow motion, as the bubbly drenched him, though he was sure it only made the blood he was covered in slightly pink instead of red; not washing him of it, only mingling, muddying.

He looked up, the sound of glass shattering seemingly so far away from him. Someone stood before him - tall, with sandy hair and dead-looking eyes - and the muzzle of a gun slowly turned from the headless corpse on the couch toward Castiel, who was sprawled out on the floor, shaking and panting like the helpless thing he knew he was.

Was it? No, it couldn’t be - how sick his mind was, tricking Castiel into seeing his brother stand before him, gun pointed at his chest. How on Earth could it possibly be... As Castiel took a breath, one he was sure would be his last, their eyes connected. A shiver ran down his spine, curling and pooling in the pit of his stomach.

A gunshot sounded. Panic no longer had a place in his mind; Castiel felt himself falling the rest of the way backwards as a great, all-encompassing numbness washed over his senses. At last his sins had caught up to him. Of course, he rather hoped his end wouldn’t come atop a dirty floor in the back room of a seedy strip joint and, worse yet, garbed in little else than his G-string with a handful of singles caught between fabric and skin, but, well, that was just the kind of luck Castiel was graced with.

Distantly, he heard the echoes of voices. At first, Castiel thought that, perhaps, they were voices from the afterlife calling to him, welcoming. As they grew louder, however, he grew confused; none of them belonged to anyone he’d met before. Vaguely, he registered the feeling of hands - someone else’s, to be exact - pulling at his arms and shoulders, trying to shake him. 

 _No_ , he wanted to sob, _let death take me_. He knew he wasn’t made for the world...

“Open your eyes. Come on, buddy; let me see you open your eyes.” The voice was gentle and deep, though a little frantic, and Castiel found that he was, completely despite himself, compelled to look upon the creature that would dare rob him of his end. A gentle hand pressed against the side of his face, calloused fingers running over the skin and slight stubble of his cheek, and Castiel realized, with much anguish, that death had already let go. When he opened his eyes he was met with a face, slightly sun-kissed and dusted with freckles. Long eyelashes parted to reveal a pair of the greenest eyes Castiel had ever seen. The stranger smiled down at him, then ripped his gaze away as he shouted something over his shoulder.

Reality came crashing down on Castiel much like a brick house might; heavily. He sat up with such great force that the world began to spin around him, the paintings on the wall careening about his vision, the lights on the wall pulsing to the beat of the blood in his ears. The green-eyed man was nearly knocked backwards as Castiel scrambled about him, looking wildly for the one who’d shot him.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he was assured as heavy, gentle hands gripped his shoulders.

Castiel looked down at his chest, his hands scrambling for the wound he knew, just second before, he had felt. But, under his fingers, there was nothing; no marr on his skin, no hole. There was already so much blood on his chest that he couldn’t differentiate between his own blood and that of-

Again with abrupt movements, Castiel whipped his head around, wanting to avoid any and all chance he might see the heap of dead flesh that once resembled a person. His stomach quivered and quaked within him, threatening, with angry growls, to revolt at any moment.

A bright orange, somewhat stiff blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and pulled tight around him. At first, Castiel resisted; it felt too intimate, too confined, too claustrophobic.

“Hey, hey, hey - we’re good. It’s alright. You’re going to be fine.”

For the second time in as many minutes, blue met green.

“We got him, you’re safe, you’re okay, you’re-”

Castiel gagged.

“You’re apparently going to be sick. Come on, let’s go - up, up, up. Is there a bathroom or shower or something around here?”

Castiel knew that the question was meant not just for him but for all listening ears in the vicinity. He heard someone - one of the other dancers, perhaps - give directions, and before he realised what he was doing, Castiel’s feet were marching toward the curtain that separated the room with the changing area in the back of the building. He didn’t know how many prying eyes watched him, and he didn’t feel like counting, but he knew there were stares fixated upon him as he, clumsily, put one foot in front of the other.

Once past the curtain, past judgemental eyes, Castiel’s knees gave out and he stumbled, dropping the orange blanket from his grip so that he might catch himself against the wall. Then, by what felt like some divine act, there was a pair of arms around him, circling him from behind, one wrapped tightly around his chest, the other looped under his arm. Castiel felt his feet shuffle underneath him as he was led toward one of the benches against the wall near the shower stall.

When they neared, the green-eyed man maneuvered Castiel so that he was able to sit down. Castiel let his head fall to his hands, his elbows to his knees, as he tried to slow his erratic heart.

His body - damn the traitor - had kicked into high-drive when he’d been shot, expelling the bullet and knitting together both sinew and skin. It would be days, perhaps weeks, before he would manage to save up enough energy to simply fly out of town - off of the damn continent - and the more people that saw Castiel’s face, the less likely it was going to be that he’d make a clean break when the time came.

The warm touch of a soft, damp wash cloth brought Castiel from his thoughts, feeling less like he’d crashed to the floor and more like he’d fallen through the atmosphere to be greeted by a brick pile. He gasped and looked up, his eyes straining as they tried to focus. The man before him, the owner of the aforementioned green eyes, was dressed not in a police uniform, but in regular clothing; a light cotton shirt with a leather corded necklace peeking from the dip of the neck of the shirt, with denim jeans and well-worn work boots accompanying the look, giving way to a man who, by all respects, looked simply ordinary.

“You’ve dealt with some pretty harsh stuff tonight, but I’m gonna need to you on Earth with me for a few minutes, alright?”

Castiel nodded, though he felt numb throughout.

“Name’s Winchester; I’m working alongside the police. First and foremost, have you been shot? I couldn’t find any wounds on you myself, but you’re fairly bloody - are you in pain? We’ve got the paramedics on the way, but it’ll be a few minutes before they can get a gurney in here for you.”

Castiel shook his head. “Not mine - not my blood - shot - shot in front of me - but not me - I - I - I-” His lips fumbled making a coherent sentence, but officer Winchester seemed to understand him well enough.

“Calm down, calm down, we’re good, it’s going to be alright. Do you think you can stand up and get under the tap for me?”

When Castiel managed to right himself, standing on his own with the officer nearby, he eventually found himself close enough to the water spewing from the rust-dirtied shower head  to dunk his head under the spray. He shuddered as the warm water cascaded down on him, sluicing the blood off of his skin in colored ribbons.

He didn’t know how long he stood under the tap, but the other man - Winchester - eventually shut off the spray and Castiel could only assume he was free from the stain of blood. He groped the wall absent-mindedly for a towel, not really caring who it belonged to, and began to dry himself. He turned his back toward the officer, pulling the now-drenched dollar bills that were tucked into his only garment, hoping that they would dry quickly. Draping the towel across his shoulder and leaning down slightly so that it wouldn’t fall, Castiel stood before his open locker and dressed himself. Slacks that were getting too big for his thinning frame, mismatched socks, a white button up shirt with holes beneath the arms and an old, well-worn and well-loved trenchcoat hardly made for a fashionable outfit, but, other than the already-tied tie that he draped around his neck, Castiel didn’t exactly have much else to his name. A canvas tote hung on one of the hooks inside of his locker containing the rest of Castiel’s belongings; an old digital camera he’d found in a dumpster - the crack in the screen was hardly noticeable - a few energy bars he’d swiped from a big-name store that wouldn’t miss them, one extra pair of each socks and underwear, not including the few pairs for when he was on stage, and a wadded-up ball of dollar bills he hoped would buy enough gas for his car to at least get him out of state.

Castiel hadn’t realized that the officer had even left the room until he noticed his return, followed by a man in a paramedic's uniform, plastic-looking tool kit box in hand. 

“You hanging in there? What’s your name?”

Looking between each of the men several times, Castiel’s mind drew a blank. What was the name he’d given to this particular place of work? Clarance? Emanuel? Jimmy? Much to his own dismay, there apparently was a clear road-block on the way from his brain to his mouth, because the next three syllables that fell from his mouth formed his actual name. 

“Alright, Castiel,” - the use of his name by another person made his skin crawl - “This is my pal Garth. He’s a paramedic. Can he give you a once-over to make sure you’re in one piece?”

At the mention of his name, the paramedic, Garth, offered Castiel a smile and motioned for him to take a seat on one of the benches they stood by.

Castiel, however, shook his head. “Can’t. No insurance.”

Garth’s gentle smile reached from ear to ear. “No worries; unless you want a ride in the ambulance, there’s no charge.”

“Please, I just want to leave.”

Winchester placed his splayed hands out in front of him in what looked to Castiel as some kind of movement to ease him. “Cas, we need to make sure you’re alright. Nothing major, nothing intrusive. You obviously went into shock back there, and we need to make sure you’re coherent enough to give a statement.”

Castiel canted his head in a quizzical manner. No one other than his kin had ever bothered to give him a nickname, and it felt almost foreign to hear such a moniker come from the lips of a stranger.

“We just want to make sure you’re alright.”

His mind still a mess, his thoughts running madly inside of his head, Castiel ignored the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach and sat. He was inspected by Garth, a man who seemed far too kind and happy of a person to have a job as stressful as a paramedic. Castiel, however, was pleased he managed to keep such a thought to himself. He kept his answers short, ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or as close to single word replies as he could manage, while Garth looked him over, taking blood pressure and checking his vitals. All the while Winchester, his arms crossed and against his chest, surveyed over the situation.

With Garth’s check-up finished - no wounds, no surprise - Castiel pulled his canvas tote free from it’s hook, then shut the locker as quietly as he could. He sighed, dejectedly. It wasn’t that he’d miss the job - far from it - but no job meant no money. He’d likely have to be on the road for days before he recharged, burning through the last of his cash on fuel for the car instead of food. As if on cue, his stomach groaned in discomfort, a sick feeling echoing through his body.

A hand, warm and steady, gripped his shoulder, and reality snapped back into place around him. Apparently, Garth had left, and Winchester had been talking to him. Well, at him, considering how completely checked-out he felt. Taking a deep breath, Castiel shook the fog from his mind. “Look, there isn’t much to tell. I was giving a dance, and suddenly the guy’s head exploded. I don’t know what else there is to say. You caught the guy with a gun in his hands - how much more black and white could it be?”

“Hey, hey, I know. This is tough. But I’m just doing my job, alright? Need to get you down to the station; gotta follow protocol.”

Fighting the urge to roll his eyes, Castel clenched his jaw tight. Protocol his ass, he thought, bitterly. The cops were only uppity because someone had been shot on site. That meant the whole place would need to close up for the following investigation. The week before last, when one of the dancers had called the cops to have a drunken, belligerent patron removed from the premises, the police force hadn’t done much for them. In fact, it took them nearly three hours to show up, and Castiel had sported a black eye for the weekend when he’d been jumped on his way out. For a drunken, stumbling man, he’d packed quite a well-aimed right hook, the aftermath thereof awarding Castiel with one hell of a shiner. Anyone sporting any sort of bruise or otherwise disfiguring trait, as his boss so kindly put it, wasn’t allowed in the floor. And unfortunately, for all his days on earth, Castiel had grown somewhat accustomed to eating. A black eye meant no sets, and no sets meant no tips, and no tips meant Castiel went hungry. So, in an act of desperation, he’d pocketed a handful of makeup products from a corner pharmacy in a part of town he didn’t often venture into, along with a few nutrition bars just so he had something to put in his stomach until he could get back into the club. With enough practice - and a few tutorials he’d watched online at the public library on his days off - he’d covered nearly all evidence that he’d been on the misfortunate end of a rather one-sided fight. The dim lighting of the floor had helped, too, and Castiel made enough that night to make up for the previous two in which he’d nearly, and somewhat, gone hungry.

“Should I follow you in my car, then?”

The look the man wore was weaved of a myriad emotions, from shock to downright disbelief. “You just watched some guy’s get blown clean off and you’re thinking about driving?”

Castiel actually bit his tongue to stop himself from letting fly a scathing remark. After all, this officer knew nothing of him, of his past, of the things he’d seen. Then again, was it little wonder he’d be concerned? How was Winchester to know that Castiel had been in shock not from the splattering of bone and blood and sinew but from the man he thought he’d seen holding the gun?

“Sorry, I - uh, I’m -” There he was, fumbling his words again. Castiel took a deep breath and sighed, relenting. Let the officer think Castiel was still scared from the murder, from the shooting not the shooter. Perhaps if he thought Castiel scared and tired enough from the entire ordeal, he might let Castiel leave on a promise to come in at a later time, a promise that would be broken before it was even spoken. Castiel needed to leave, and ten minutes ago wasn’t soon enough.

The officer, however, was stubborn. “It’s alright - I can drive. If you need to, I can call ahead and have one of the PD’s therapists waiting for you. Let me know what you need, yeah?”

Castiel swallowed and nodded, glad at least that he was able to gather his belongings before heading out, in step, behind Winchester. Prying and curious eyes set upon him, hungry for answers and gossip, as the other dancers and wait staff looked on. Castiel adjusted his collar and tie, realizing too late that it was on backwards, frustrated at how dazed he’d been hardly minutes before. Why had he even put the damn thing on?

The cold, mid-autumn air was like a punch to the gut. Castiel wheezed as the chill assaulted him, pulling warmth from him wherever skin met air. Dutifully, however, he stayed close to the other man as they traversed the parking lot.

“This is me,” Winchester offered, jamming a key in the driver’s side door of a jet black, well-loved car.

Castiel was not what one might describe as a ‘car person,’ but he appreciated when something that was useful was also beautiful.

“She’s somethin’ special, ain’t she?”

Castiel nodded, his eyes smoothing over the just-washed look of the exterior of the vehicle. The officer climbed in, leaning over the bench seat to unlock the passenger-side door. “It doesn’t look like a police car.”

It was obvious that Winchester was trying to help distract Castiel from the entire ordeal, so, in return, Castiel pretended to be distracted. “Strictly speaking, I’m not part of the PD here. I’m a detective. I consult on certain specialty cases.”

Castiel hummed in reply, not truly interested. The sooner he gave his statement, the sooner he could leave town.

Castiel wasn't much of a car man, but it wasn't hard for him to tell Winchester took good care of his vehicle. No trash on the floor. It even smelled good. Surprisingly good, the leather of the seats mixing well with some deep spice that must have simply been Winchester's natural musk. Hints of cinnamon and mint, too, perhaps from a long-forgotten air-freshener. Whatever it was, it reminded Castiel of home. Well, not his home with his family, but more like the home he and Anna had built up in one another; a place of safety.

Most of the ride was spent in near complete silence, but it was almost comforting to Castiel’s ears. No loud, overbearing music, no near-nakedness, no wad of bills tucked under elastic bands; he took a deep breath and eased his head back on the rest. “I forgot to offer my thanks. Your paramedic friend, Garth, was kind.”

“Good kid. Little slow at times, and seems way too happy to be a paramedic. But he’s good at his job, and he owed me a solid.”

Castiel shifted, feeling almost uncomfortable for having thought the same about the young man. “Yes. Thank you.”

“I couldn’t let you not get looked over, not with how shook up you looked back there. If one of the other cops had found you first, they might have insisted on taking you to the hospital. But, eh, sirens and blinking lights and beeping machines - if you’re not hurt, why pull an ambulance bill for a few grand?”

Hadn’t he said something about protocol back in the changing room? Castiel mused. “Still, it was very kind for you to have him tend me.”

“Nah, man; just being human.”

Shaking his head, Castiel sighed. “No, you weren’t. I am around other humans, all night long, and they don’t act a fraction as kindly as you.”

Castiel watched Winchester fight a small smile out of the corner of his eye. “Well, what are a bunch of drunks good for, anyway, if not for bringing down the collective IQ of the rest of us, right? By the way, man - where did you get that back piece done? It’s some seriously sweet ink.”

Whether the detective changed the subject to ease Castiel’s mind or to simply shrug off a compliment, Castiel couldn’t tell. “It’s an old piece,” he offered. He didn’t much like talking about the set of wings decorating his back and upper arms, but he knew well enough to take a compliment when it was offered. Not that the ‘ink’ decorating his shoulders was actually ink at all. But, the less Winchester knew about Castiel, the safer the both of them were.

“You sure I can’t get you to talk to one of the shrinks at the station?” the detective offered. “I can’t really think of anyone who would just shrug off watching a guy’s head - for lack of a better term - get blown the hell off.”

Castiel nearly fumbled his words, but thankfully was able to control his heart-rate and slow the icy crawl of adrenaline down his spine. “I worked as a photographer in places most only hear about on tv. War, famine, child-soldiers - there’s a lot I’ve seen, a lot that doesn’t burn me to the core like it used to. It still gets under your skin, but you learn to control it when you’re in the field.”

“Jeeze, man. That was a little more morbid a reply than I expected.”

Castiel let the hint of a smile grace his lips, exasperated more than anything. “At the risk of sounding depressing, there isn’t much I haven’t seen.” And it was true, his words. Be it horrible atrocities caught on camera with shaking hands, or ones at his feet from what seemed like a thousand lifetimes ago, Castiel had seen too much.

“Sorry to hear it. You seem like a nice guy.”

Turning his head sharply, Castiel looked the detective over. Most of those with a badge he had the misfortune of dealing with treated him as an entity lower than dirt on the evolutionary scale. He was a stripper, someone unworthy of the time of everyone but those who ventured willingly into the seedy warehouse-come-strip-joint. He’d been called things that had cut him to his core, had done deeds that cut him even further, and yet he’d just been complemented by a man that was slowly becoming an enigma to him.

“And I mean it, about your ink. It’s huge - all the way across your back and arms. Must have been some artist.”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably. Had he known he’d end up at one point in his life taking off his clothes in order to feed himself, he might have done a better job trying to hide the one thing that made him stand out. It wasn’t as though he could simply have it removed, however, so, while it bothered Castiel to some great degree, it was simply another thing on an infinitely growing list of things that was completely out of his control. He’d had some story fabricated to tell his patrons who threw questions to him about it, but, in the company he found himself momentarily keeping, he’d somehow forgotten.

“It’s a sensitive subject,” he managed finally to grind out.

“My bad,” detective Winchester amended. “I bet you get asked quite a bit, though, considering your job.”

Another hint of a smile pulled at the corners of Castiel’s mouth, but he let it go just as fast as it had come.

A huge portion of the remainder of the night was somewhat of a blur to Castiel, sporadically spotted with finite details. He remembered the donut and cup of coffee he’d been offered - and kept himself from wolfing down, despite how hungry he felt or how foul the brew - as well as the name of several of the officers who came to speak with him. He gave his fake address when they asked him where he lived - the one that matched his fake driver’s license, just in case they asked for it - and provided a fake number for where they could reach him with any follow-up questions later on.

Detective Winchester was in and out of the room Castiel spent most of the night in, flittering through the door with a handful of paperwork and photos, then back out again when his name was called. He offered to bring Castiel something each time he left the room, from food to coffee to water and whatever else he apparently had close at hand. The PD’s appointed shrink also stopped in to momentarily speak with him, a polite and demure woman, and she offered him her business card in case he changed his mind.

It was nearing dawn when detective Winchester entered the room for a final time, a manilla folder tucked under his arm. When he closed the door behind him, he laid the folder out, pushing toward Castiel a picture that nearly made his heart leap through his throat.

“Can you identify the man in this picture?”

Castiel’s tongue turned to sand in his mouth, choking and nearly gagging him. How was he supposed to answer that? The short cropped hair, the cold, almost lazy look to his eyes; the man in the picture was exactly who Castiel had thought he’d simply imagined back in the champagne room; it was his brother.

“It’s alright if this is too much, Cas. We can bring you back at a later date. It’s just formalities, it’s just-”

“That’s the man who shot my client,” Castiel finally spat out. Thank the stars that the detective simply thought he was upset about what he’d witnessed and had no means of knowing the truth.

Whatever went on next, Castiel’s mind was simply not in it. He felt his body move as if directed by some higher force, or perhaps by some sort of autopilot. Whatever forms he signed, whatever he nodded his head to, was strictly physical motion; his consciousness was floating through the stratosphere. It was only when detective Winchester again laid his heavy hands on his shoulders that whatever fog had been muddling Castiel’s mind cleared. He looked past long eyelashes and into green irises, a splotch of freckles decorating the bridge of a nose.

“Cas, buddy, I need you to focus.”

Castiel blinked, unaware of how, exactly, he’d managed to enter the foyer of the police building. He shook his head, an apology stuttering past his lips.

The detective removed his hands. “It’s alright. After what you’ve been through, I’m surprised you’re still coherent. You sure you don’t want me to go and grab June for you?”

June must have been the therapist from earlier. Castiel scratched at the back of his head. “No, I - no. Sorry. It’s just been a long night.”

“No kidding. It’s almost dawn. Well, we’re done with you for now if you’d like a ride back to your car.”

Castiel nodded, fighting back a yawn. The crisp coolness of an autumn sunrise, though refreshing to some degree, didn’t really help Castiel’s state of mind. At the rate he was going, he’d likely have to sleep for a few hours before heading out of town, just to make sure he didn’t fall asleep behind the wheel.

As he walked across the parking lot toward the car the detective had driven them both to the precinct in, Castiel watched with curious eyes as his momentary companion turned on his heel and began to walk backwards, his hands splayed out to one side.

“I don’t think the two of you got properly introduced earlier. Cas, this is Baby. Baby, this is Cas.”

Another smile, this one only coming to light perhaps due to how tired Castiel was. He waited for his door to unlock before he slid across smooth leather and buckled his seatbelt.

“You hungry?”

Taken by surprise, Castiel stumbled over his reply.

“Because it feels like days since I last ate,” the officer continued, as if Castiel hadn’t made a mess of his words. “What do you say we pick something up on our way over?”

And, before Castiel could refuse - he had to make the dollars in his pocket stretch, since he didn’t know how long he’d be without an income again - the detective offered a grin. “My treat.”

Caught off guard once more, Castiel simply nodded dumbly, not trusting his mouth and his brain to connect fully given his tired yet frantic state. He was hungry, no matter how deep the threads of anxiety and exhaustion had embedded themselves. And, to be fair, Castiel couldn’t see the harm in a free meal on his way out of town. It was one less thing to worry over, so he decided not to.

The ride, this time, was spent with the sounds of rock and roll softly filling the air between them. It wasn’t necessarily the kind of music Castiel found himself listening to on a frequent basis, but it was a nice way to chase the silence away. It meant he didn’t have to talk; it meant that, for a solid moment in time, he could simply be, simply exist. He wasn’t a runaway, he wasn’t scared, or tired, or clinging desperately to whatever was left of his life; he was a man in a car being being serenaded by guitar over the radio.

Castiel was jostled out of a sleep he wasn’t aware he’d slipped into when the car slowed and took a turn, further into the drive-thru of some 24-hour burger joint he’d never heard of. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes as the detective pulled a wad of cash from his wallet in preparation to pay for their meals.

“Hope you don’t mind that I ordered for you,” he apologized without really apologizing at all.

Shaking his head, Castiel straightened in his seat. “Not much I won’t, or can’t, eat.”

“Good answer,” came the reply, through a soft chuckle.

When the car in front of them pulled away, bag of food having exchanged hands, they edged toward the window. As the slider eased open, the young face of a teenager lit up as he looked at who was driving the car.

“Hey, Dean. You get called in early today?”

The newly named man in Castiel’s company, Dean, shook his head. “Pulled an all-nighter. Just getting out now.

A young woman walked to the window, a bag of straws in her hands. “Is that Dean?” she asked, peering around her coworker.

Dean leaned forward, waving. “Yeah, it’s me.”

The girl tilted her head as she looked out of the window. “You didn’t mention they were giving you a partner.”

“No, no,” Dean said as Castiel watched him reach out to take the food from them. “Guys, this is Cas. He’s, uh, a friend of mine. He helped me out today at work, so I’m giving him a ride.”

Castiel leaned to his left, putting his weight on his elbow as he did so, and waved to the two young people in the window. He felt relieved at how blasé the detective was being over the entire ordeal, purposefully not drawing attention or giving anything away about who he was driving across town.

The young girl in the window winked. “He’s a cutie,” she playfully smiled.

Caught of guard, Castiel blinked in surprise, a flush rising to his cheeks.

Dean, however, rolled his eyes as if she’d told a bad joke, paying it little mind. Castiel scratched at his chin, suddenly aware of how he might look. He was in clothing, at least, and while his appearance may have seemed disheveled, there was a good reason behind it, right? After all, it’s not every night one might see someone from their past drop out of the sky like a ton of bricks. And, well, the whole head explosion thing really didn’t help, he supposed, though he did so silently. He took the bag of food that Dean handed to him as they both wished the two kids a good night - or, as it were, morning.

The greasy cheeseburger, much to Castiel’s delight, was delicious. It was hot and juicy and the cheese was actual cheese, not that fake processed crap that so many other places used. Dean, next to him, raised his eyebrows in surprise as he watched Castiel wolf down his meal. “Well, I’m glad I got us each two. If you were that hungry, you could have said something. We keep snacks around the offices, you know.”

“If your so-called ‘snacks’ were anything like the ‘coffee,’” Castiel explained, using finger quotes for exaggeration, “then I was better off hungry.”

That earned Castiel an actual guffaw from Dean, though it was quieted through a mouthful of burger. Dean swallowed, his expression still light. “Yeah, you got me there. I made the mistake of drinking that crap on the first day. Never did that again.”

Despite everything, Castiel let an actual smile curl over his lips. It was tight and small, but, for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t forced. He’d never met someone quite at ease with the world, or at least not quite like Dean Winchester. Castiel felt slightly guilty over his stance on splitting town, but no matter how chummy he was becoming with Dean, he’d made his mind up the moment his eyes had locked with the killer back at the strip club. There was no way around it. Besides, the simple, however rare, kindness of another person - and a man of the law, no less - didn’t exactly rekindle Castiel’s faith in humanity. It was one person. Enigmas were present in the most unlikely of places; small specks of light amidst a swirling, choking drudgery, people scrambling over one another in order to seat themselves at the top. And, the way Castiel saw it, despite such unique people, there wasn’t enough to convince him that, in the long run, people weren’t only ever out for themselves.

It was a sombering notion, and it made Castiel’s fries stick in his throat. He pounded at his chest, trying to dislodge the masticated potatoes, and the effort made his eyes water. A ringing sounded, loud and keening, and it was distracting enough that Castiel was able to swallow down what had caught in his throat.

“Shit, that’s my phone,” Dean raised his backside off the seat, driving with one hand and trying to dig his phone out of his pocket with the other. “You alright?”

Castiel held up his hand and nodded his head, taking a deep gulp of air. “Fine,” he managed to grind out, trying to breathe normally again. But, in taking his next breath, Castiel caught wind of some terrible, acrid stench that was beyond assaulting, invading, and it made his heart sink even further into his stomach for he didn’t even have to look to know what spread out before him. As Dean’s car rounded the corner of the parking lot, Castiel saw that his car, and with it the rest of his belongings, had been set alight.

The car lurched to a stop, and Castiel’s world became muted in all aspects; Dean, next to him, shouted into his phone, but he might as well have been underwater for all that Castiel could understand him. Fuck; he should have just bolted when he had the chance. Who would have come after a stripper in shock? No one. Well, at least no one for a few days. By the time they would send someone to look  for him, he would have ditched his wheels three states over.

Now? Well, he thought, bitterly, to himself, he was fucked. Royally fucked. Upside-down and seven ways to Sunday fucked.

And, apparently, the good Dean Winchester was suddenly very aware of such.

“What the fuck do you mean we’ve been compromised?” Dean shouted into his phone.

Castiel returned to reality, his senses coming back into sharp focus as adrenaline pumped again through his veins.

“What the hell do you think I mean, boy? That psychopath took down five officers when he busted out of the precinct, then set a damn car on fire. You better get your ass, and the ass of your newest friend there, the hell out of dodge.”

“Shit. Shit. SHIT.” Each expletive was punctuated with Dean slamming his hands against the steering wheel. “Nine months of goddamn work down the goddamn drain!”

“You think I don’t know that, ya idjit? You ain’t safe in that podunk little shit-hole no more; your first priority is getting your ass to safety.”

“Is it rainy season?”

“Don’t see a lick of sunshine.”

The call ended, and Castiel was met with sharp silence. The last two lines were a code for something, though for what Castiel could only guess.

“Stop the car,” he pleaded.

“Can’t do that,” Dean retorted, not bothering to apologize.

“Please, Dean. Please.”

“Look, I’m gonna come clean with you. It’s going to sound a little crazy, but you have to trust me. That shooter? Wasn’t a normal human. The part about me being a detective is only partially true; I am a detective, but not for normal cases. I hunt down the supernatural.”

Castiel swallowed. Fuck. Dean was a hunter. Of all the people in the world to be stuck in a car with, Castiel was lucky enough to be sitting next to a damn hunter.

Dean had obviously taken Castiel’s silence for surprise. He continued to spill. “I know this must sound ten shades of crazy, but it’s true. I’ve been tailing the shooter from the club - code named ‘The Devil’ - for little over a year now. I work within a network of other people all across the states to find supernatural beings and hunt them down.”

Castiel could feel tremors in his hands as his chest tightened. He bit back a panic attack, pushing anxiety under the rug in an effort to keep his head attached to his shoulders.

See, Castiel realized he had another very serious problem. It was bad enough that his brother had set his car on fire. He got that message, loud and clear: Castiel was next. But no matter how his brother scared him, it was no match for the fear that welled up inside of him over the prospect of being in the company of a hunter.

He had no car, no mojo, and was sitting next to what essentially counted as the closest thing his kind had to a ‘natural predator.’

Yeah, totally fucked.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, triggers/warnings are tagged at the BOTTOM of each chapter.

The car ride was torturous, the greater first half of it filled with Dean trying to ‘explain’ things about The Others to Castiel. The Others, as they had been deemed by the few in the human populace that were either sure or convinced of their actual existence, was a spanning name, covering all and any things that the mainstream of humanity had dubbed ‘supernatural.’ It covered creatures and apparitions alike, a large, cloaking term that blanketed many creatures and beings. Some were intelligent - like Castiel and his kin, for instance - but the term also spanned into the less intelligent or actual supernatural happenings - such as echo hauntings, wherein a ghost or spirit was stuck in a loop and was not otherwise prone to their own thoughts or actions, only an echo repeating some act, usually the one in which they’d died. Of course, there were the middle of the rung creatures, too - like wendigos, who were morphed from normal humans when they’re forced to eat human flesh to survive, changing them both in body and mind; after the change, they crave human flesh, and lose most of their human characteristics like deep thought, turning to more basic, primal behavior.

But it was all old hat for Castiel, not that he could tell the hunter in the next seat over as much. He’d grown up in the life of The Others, been part of their world since his birth.

Regardless of how Castiel reacted, however, Dean was insistent. “That guy, the one who broke out, is codenamed The Devil. The guy’s a psycho, and likes to leave  trail of bodies behind him wherever he goes. He shot someone in front of you, then escaped custody and set your car on fire; there’s no question that you’re on his hit list now. I’m taking you out of state - across the damn country, actually - since I’m compromised now, too.”

“Please. I just want to wash my hands of it. Let me out the next time you stop for gas, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Dean sighed. “It’s not that simple, Cas. You’re my responsibility now. You’re being hunted, he knows your face. He knows my face, too, but I’ve disappeared off the grid more than once. Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

Castiel nodded, begrudgingly, but only for show. The first chance he got, he’d disappear. Castiel couldn’t stay. He simply couldn’t; be it his brother tracking him down, or Dean finding out the truth about him, Castiel knew the only way he’d survive was if he just vanished.

New Mexico was a blur. Nevada was a deeper shade of brown, occasionally dotted with mountains, but still a streak that smeared past his window as the sun reached overhead. Castiel, much to his dismay, had fallen asleep, and during such a time Dean stopped to fill up the car. His first chance to simply hoof it was blown, but he thought perhaps it was for the better; the further he managed to get from his brother, the harder it would become for him to be found. Besides, with the smaller towns they passed on the highways, there likely weren’t many places Castiel could hide. He was better off waiting for a larger city, with crowds he could easily blend into.

They were outside of Reno when he first got his chance. Castiel knew it would be all too simple to disappear in the ‘biggest little city in the world,’ even if the thought of being alone again was weighing down on him. He’d been on his own for so, so many years, never staying long in the same place, wandering like a nomad across the face of the earth. But alone was safe; no one could hurt him, try to twist his words or actions, even his thoughts, against him. Even if loneliness was a heavy burden to carry, it was better than the shit his family always tried to saddle him with.

Dean pulled off of the main highway, weaving through the late-night traffic in hopes of finding a place to stay that wasn’t sparkling on the main strip. Castiel knew Dean must have been just as tired as he looked, what with the bags under his eyes. All the while, Castiel’s body practically hummed with anxiety as he plotted how best to ditch the man in the driver’s seat.

The motel was somewhat off the beaten path, tucked away against a more semi-industrial part of downtown. Castiel thought of simply running the moment he got out of the car, but he wasn’t sure how fast Dean was, so he quickly put it out of his mind. It would be easier, though likely just as stressful, if he slipped away during the night, or at a time he might not be missed for several minutes.

He followed Dean into the main office, knowing that the hunter’s eyes were on him. It was too early to start running. Still, he remained unflinching when Dean gave fake names for each of them. A stack of bills was exchanged for a room key, and Castiel followed Dean out of the building, both of them dragging their tired feet as they closed in on their rented room.

It was a sparsely furnished room, but it had two twin beds, and, despite his conviction to put space between he and Dean, Castiel couldn’t help but sit back and sink into the mattress. He’d get up, he’d run, but first he needed a slight reprieve.

“Sorry we had to take off without grabbing anything at your place.”

Castiel sighed, closing his eyes as he adjusted into a slightly more comfortable position. “To be honest, everything I owned went up in smoke. I got kicked out of my place a while back; I was living out of my car.”

He heard Dean hiss through his teeth. “Sorry to hear that.”

Castiel sighed. He didn’t like it when people pitied him, even less so when it was a hunter. Regardless, perhaps due to his tiredness, more words cascaded from his mouth. “I was only working the pole because it was really all I had left; towns that small generally don’t have many job openings that aren’t working fast food grills, and I needed something above minimum wage to pay the rent unless I wanted to pick up triple shifts and see how long I could go without sleeping. Not that it mattered in the end; still didn’t make enough to pay for the place I had.”

Another sigh from Dean. “I’ve never fallen quite that low, but, well, I know what it’s like to be skating through poverty.”

Castiel jumped when something cold touched his knee. His eyes flew open, but the offending object was nothing more than a bottle of beer Dean was holding out to him. He took the drink and sat up, nodding in thanks, as he twisted the cap off.

When Castiel was busy swallowing his beverage, Dean continued. “I’ve got a little brother, and I’ve pretty much been the only reliable person in his life. Our dad... He was on the road a lot. Out on jobs that didn’t pay much, if anything at all.”

“And your brother?”

The change in Dean was instantly observable; his tiredness was swept off of his face, replaced with a gentle sort of pride, a small smile curling his lips. “He’s in college; got nearly a full ride to Stanford. I still help him out when I can, send him money when I have it.”

Castiel, somewhat impressed, nodded and hummed his approval through another long drought of his beer.

“What about you? You got any family?”

Castiel snorted, rolling his eyes. “My family is a bunch of freaks.” Castiel was well aware of the strange irony his words were laced with, but he knew that Dean wouldn’t understand the deeper meaning behind them. “I’ve got older brothers with some serious narcissistic disorders, and don’t even get me started on my parents. The one member of my family I could stand was my only sister, but she... she passed away.” The words very nearly stuck in Castiel’s throat. He didn’t have the slightest clue as to why he was spilling his guts to a hunter of all people, but just as he couldn’t stop the guilt and shame that welled up inside of him at the mention of his sister’s passing, neither could Castiel stop the variable verbal diarrhea that was spilling out of him.

“That why you left?”

Castiel froze, his thoughts stuttering to a halt. Did Dean know who - what - he was?

“Cas, I know the face of a man who’s lost someone and tried to walk away from it all; I see it when I look in the mirror.”

His blood began pumping through his veins again. Castiel sighed. “She was my only reason for staying. When she was gone, I didn’t have a reason to stick around.” He took another sip of his beer. “What about you?”

Dean fidgeted, like a bright spotlight had suddenly been turned on, and he sat, restlessly, caught in the beam. “My mom.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Dean shook his head, swallowing the last of his drink. “I was four, four and a half. I don’t really remember much of it. But, it’s part of the reason I do what I do now.”

There it was again, that sticky, bitter lump in the back of Castiel’s throat. Why didn’t he just jump out of the car on the highway when he had the chance? To his great dismay, Castiel was actually sympathizing with the hunter.

“That’s why this case hits a little close to home. That guy we’re running from? He knows who killed my mom.”

A great rush of anguish and disdain washed through Castiel, and his tongue sat heavy, like a lump of clay, in his mouth.

“He doesn’t have her blood on his hands, but he’s the reason she’s dead.”

Stars above, Castiel wanted to scream. It was just like his brother to leave a trail of bodies in his wake. Once upon a time he might have dreamed that he could leave his family behind. Reality, it seemed, wasn’t so kind.

Dean heaved another sigh. “Sorry, man. I don’t meant to dump on you.”

Castiel echoed Dean’s sigh with one of his own. “At the precinct, you didn’t even try to question him, did you?”

For a moment, Dean was silent, unmoving. Then, he shook his head. “There were too many innocent people around. My handler - the guy I was on the phone with when we rolled up to your club - was arranging for a secure team to escort him out. I couldn’t risk losing my temper in front of him and risking the lives of the other officers.”

And just like that, Castiel’s stomach twisted. Dean, despite the fact that he’d been within arm’s reach of retribution for his deceased mother, had valued the lives of the people around him more than revenge.

Oh, stars above, why did he have to have a thing for green eyes and freckles?

Castiel ran a hand down his face with the heels of his palms. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” he offered.

Dean let out a derisive huff of a laugh, finishing his beer. “Get some sleep, buddy. We need to head out bright and early tomorrow if we want to get where we’re going.”

“And where are we going?”

Shrugging, Dean kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed, not even bothering to change out of his jeans. “We’ll know when we get there.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter II tags: feelings of guilt/depression, minor detailing of life in poverty, mentions of death in family


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, triggers/warnings are tagged at the BOTTOM of each chapter.

Castiel nearly took off in the night. He was in the bathroom toweling his hair dry when he caught the window in the mirror. He thought he could fit through it. In fact, he knew he could. But, knowing what he did, Castiel couldn’t bring himself to flee.

Lucifer - or The Devil, as Dean referred to him, and Castiel’s own brother - had been the one to order a hit on Dean’s mom. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that his brother hadn’t done it, either. He wasn’t sure what Dean’s mom had done to piss Lucifer off, but Castiel knew it wouldn’t have been some trivial affair. Dean had mentioned his father had been on the road a lot, working jobs that didn’t pay much, if anything at all; perhaps Dean’s parents had both been hunters. If there was one thing Castiel knew of Lucifer, it was that he didn’t bother with paltry matters. Whatever Dean’s mom had done to get on Lucifer’s shit list had to have been big.

And that’s why Castiel couldn’t bring himself to run and hide, at least not yet. Dean had already been put through enough by Castiel’s family; even if it wasn’t by his own hand, Castiel still felt guilty, responsible somehow. The least he could do was wait for his powers to regenerate and place a spell of hiding on Dean. Then, he promised himself, he was out, gone, like a shadow in the night.

What truly began to worry Castiel, however, was the thought of having to find himself a new dealer. His drugs didn’t come cheap - that’s why he had been living his car; he had to decide between a roof over his head or keeping his wings hidden.

In the end, it hadn’t really been that hard of a decision.

As if waiting for a musical cue to make their grand appearance, his wings twitched and came to life. From the ink on his back they folded out, became corporeal, their blue-black gloss reflecting the harsh lighting of the dingy bathroom.

Castiel cursed under his breath in equal parts frustration and relief; frustration that they’d manifested so quickly when his last dosing had been less than a week ago, and relief in the way that they felt as he flexed. The feathered appendages stretched behind him, the tip of each wing touching opposite sides of the bathroom’s walls, and Castiel groaned at the sensation of his wings unfurling. He had always likened the first stretch of his wings after they’d been hidden to that of a good stretch after a decent night’s sleep.

From the next room, Castiel heard Dean fuss in his sleep. With a heavy sigh, he closed his eyes and focused on drawing his wings back, weaving flesh and sinew into flat ink under his skin. He needed to keep it together - if Dean found out he was one of The Others?

No.

Castiel shook his head, leveling his reflection with a heavy stare. Dean was a hunter, but he wasn’t a bad person, right? Castiel had never harmed a human, and didn’t intend to anytime soon.

 _I’m fooling mysel_ f, he sighed when his wings were once again spread as tattoos against the flesh of his back. _Dean’s a hunter. He’s kind, but he’s not my friend. As soon as I know he’ll be safe, I’ll leave._

The thought was sobering enough that Castiel didn’t fall asleep until it was nearly dawn.

Dean woke Castiel when the hunter walked into their motel room carrying brown paper bags with grease spots on them. Castiel didn’t even bother to ask what was in them; Dean handed a bag to him, and Castiel nearly ate the paper wrapper around his breakfast sandwich in his effort to wolf down the food as quickly as he could physically manage. Pulling and pushing his wings between the corporeal plains was more than tiresome, and he hadn’t really realized he’d gone to bed hungry until the feeling was clawing at his stomach right before sleep took him.

Castiel heard a chuckle through a mouthful of egg, bacon, and biscuit. “Slow down, you’re going to choke, man.”

Shrugging, Castiel took another colossal bite of his sandwich.

With breakfast over and done with, Dean picked up what few personal items he’d brought with him from the nightstand; a knife, which was re-strapped to his ankle-holster, a single, undecorated silver ring, and an out-dated flip phone.

They were out of town before rush hour.

Despite his inability to sleep much the night before, Castiel stayed awake for most of the drive the rest of the day. Conversation wasn’t something he could just avoid, considering it was just the two of them for the long-haul - he and Dean swapped stories for nearly all of the drive. It was obvious that Dean was trying to distract him, keeping his mind off the fact that he’d watched a man’s head explode, was being hunted down by a crazed madman, was halfway across the country with no idea of his destination in hopes that hiding will keep him safe.

For a while, it worked.

But eventually? Lucifer knew he was alive. Castiel would spend the rest of his life running and hiding.

Even so, Castiel felt at ease around Dean, a feeling that he’d never really experienced in the company of another person for many years. Let alone a human. Every once in a while while they talked, Castiel forgot who he was sharing company with. Then, Dean would mention the smallest thing as if it were a mere afterthought, like “so there we were, up in the Catskills, tracking what turned out to be just some vengel prospecting spirit,” or “up in the Pacific Northwest, researching an old  Nez Perces story,” and reality would crash over Castiel like a cold wave of ocean water. No matter how kind Dean was, he’s a hunter, and that meant Castiel was his prey. No matter how handsome Dean was when he laughed, the knife strapped to his ankle would still end Castiel’s life in little more than a flick of the wrist. No matter how gentle Dean’s smile was when he called Castiel ‘Cas,’ he was still what essentially passed as an Otherly version of the Boogey Man in Castiel’s world. And no matter how much Castiel found himself to enjoy the ride and the company, there was no way he could stay.

Well, his family had said that too much heart had always been Castiel’s problem.

Fields of yellowing prairie grasses, dotted with pine trees, made up the eastern portion of Washington state that they drove through. Castiel, never having been in that particular part of the country before, voiced his confusion; why was everything so yellow if all it did was rain?

Dean smiled and shook his head. “The west side of the state is the part that’s almost always rainy, over by the coast, places like Seattle and Olympia. Heading east from the coast, it starts out as pretty much rainforest, then there’s a huge mountain range, deserts, a canyon, parties, and forests."

Castiel spots the road sign ahead, welcoming him to the city. “Spo-kane?”

Another laugh. “Spo-can.”

Castiel squints at Dean. “It’s clearly spelled ‘k-a-n-e.’”

“Yup, but that’s not how they say it.”

They pass signs for an air force base as well as an actual airport, then they crest over a hill and before them the city sprawls out. It’s not huge - not like the metropolitan areas Castiel had visited in his travels - but it’s big enough to get lost in.

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel said as he took in all he could see. Trees, everywhere - so much green, even in October. He could see snow-capped mountains in the distance, and as they began through what he assumed must have been the downtown area, the interstate rose in the air amidst the trees and buildings surrounding, giving them a decent view.

They pulled off into downtown and stopped for burgers at what must have been a local drive-in, as Castiel’s unfamiliarity regarding the name. It starts with a Z, but the rest was lost on him as he listened to Dean order. The sandwich names were a little strange - Wrangler? Papa Joe? Rodeo? - but so far, Dean hadn’t  ordered something that Castiel hadn’t thoroughly enjoyed, and he trusted the hunter.

The thought made Castiel’s heart climb up his throat.

Less than two days in his company and Castiel finds himself trusting a hunter?

His mind was made up when Dean handed him a burger - bacon, cheese, _and_ onion rings? - as soon as enough of his power returned, even if it’s not at full capacity, he needed to get gone.

Dean must have sensed the shift in Castiel’s attitude because he reached a hand out and gripped Castiel’s shoulder in what Castiel could only assume was meant to be a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry about all of this, man.”

Castiel’s neck snapped so hard to the side that he nearly gave himself whiplash.

Dean, however, wasn’t looking at him, at least not directly; his eyes were a little glassed over, and fixed on the burger in his hand.

“None of this was your problem until I came along.”

“Dean, how is any of it your fault?”

Dean’s free hand dropped to rest on the leather of the seat.

“I’ve been working on trying to find this guy for years, Cas. I knew he was in the area, knew that he had a possible grudge against the guy he murdered in front of you. I’d narrowed his location down to less than five places around town, and the only one I didn’t check was your club.”

The admission hung thickly in the air between them, but for varying reasons. Castiel was in no position to confess the truth of the situation to Dean. Guilt hung heavy on his shoulders, but there was no other way about it; being honest would alleviate Dean’s guilt in thinking that Lucifer was only after him because he was witness to a murder, but such a confessing would only make Dean’s sights turn from his brother to himself.

So, Castiel kept his mouth shut. He sat there next to Dean, letting his insides try to eat their way out, knowing that Dean’s guilt was, in part, Castiel’s fault.

Dean shook his head. “I didn’t do my job right, and it cost you yours.”

Castiel snorted. “Yeah, because I had such a blossoming career taking off my clothing in exchange for dollar bills.” He rolled his eyes in a derisive manner. “The only reason I was working there was because I needed the money, Dean. It’s not a job I ever aspired to have.”

But the way Dean looked when he turned to catch Castiel’s gaze told him that whatever words he had for the hunter were lost. Dean shook his head, took a bite out of his burger, and that was end of the conversation, the end of all conversations that night that weren’t comprised of single sentence questions with monosyllabic answers.

That was, until they retired for the night.

The motel sheets were rough against his skin, and no matter how Castiel tossed and turned, he couldn’t get comfortable. His wings itched, the ink undulating ever so slightly under the skin of his back.

When he heard Dean sigh, he froze.

“You still up, Cas?”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No. Just can’t sleep. Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Why you didn’t freak out?”

“Freak out?”

“Yeah. When we were driving away from the club, and I told you that I’m someone who hunts down Supernatural stuff, you just clammed up. Most people freak out, try to argue, or deny it until they’re blue in the face.”

Castiel was quiet for a long while, carefully gathering his words. When he spoke, it was only after Dean had rolled over on his own mattress to face him across the gap between their beds. “Sherlock Holmes.”

There was another stretch of silence between them. “What?” Dean finally asked.

“Sherlock Holmes. 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'”

They fell into silence again.

Dean made a gentle humming noise, obviously somewhat placated by Castiel’s answer. “It’s just,” he confessed, “you’re the first person I’ve met who hasn’t freaked out when I tell them that shit like ghosts and vampires are real.”

Castiel rolled over onto his side so that he could catch Dean’s gaze. “I’m a traveler. I’ve been to more than half of the countries in the world, and no matter where I go, I always encounter strange things that I, nor science, can explain. Is it really so hard to think that I wouldn’t believe someone offering me honest answers?”

“Yeah, but how do you know I’m being honest, Cas? How do you know I’m not just pulling this all out of my ass?”

He didn’t want to tell Dean the truth because he didn’t want it to be the truth; because I am one of them, and because, despite the fact that you didn’t know anything other than my name and occupation, you were the first person in years to treat me with any shred of kindness, and I am going to stick around long enough to help keep you hidden from my crazy brother before I fall off the face of the earth.

Instead, he sighed. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  
Castiel fell asleep, even as Dean’s eyes mapped his face, as if it held the answers he was looking for. He was lulled into slumber with the scents of warm leather and coriander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter III tags: mentions of drug use/intended drug use, admission and deep feelings of guilt, depression


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, triggers/warnings are tagged at the BOTTOM of each chapter.

Castiel awoke while Dean was on the phone. He couldn’t hear whoever Dean was conversing with, but Dean’s answers were short and simple. As he hung up, he turned around to meet Castiel’s quizzical eyes. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

He shrugged, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“That was Bobby - my handler. Said there’s been some reports of ghost activity in the area, so I was going to investigate. Nothing too bad, likely just an agitated spirit.” Dean suddenly tensed up. “You, uh, you don’t want to come with me, do you?”

Castiel shook his head. No, no he didn’t have a desire to help Dean with whatever he was hunting.

The hunter shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d asked. “Alright, well, I’m heading to the library, then I’ll likely scout the location.” Castiel watched as Dean dug through his duffle. Finding what he was looking for, he turned to Castiel and held out his hand.

Castiel took the phone, a mix of emotions swirling through him.

“If you, uh, if you need to reach me, just hit one and press send.”

“Am I required to stay inside?”

Dean blinked back in surprise, as if he hadn’t thought that Castiel might actually want to get some fresh air. Carefully, slowly, he sat down at the end of Castiel’s bed. “Cas, I know I said that all I want is to get you somewhere safe, but I’m not going to force you to stay. This whole situation is just all kinds of crazy, and the only safe place I could think of when we left was with me. I needed to get you out of the city. I wasn’t planning on keeping you with me forever or something. I just wanted to get you out of danger.”

Castiel’s throat constricted in an unfamiliar, although not altogether unwelcome, way. Hastily, he attempted to change the subject. “I’d like to take a shower, but I don’t have a change of clothes. Would it be out of line to ask you to spare something until I can get my own?”

When Castiel looked up, Dean’s eyes were on his lips. He blinked a few times before he looked up, nodded his head, and set to rummaging around in his duffle back again. What clothing he pulled out was placed at the end of the bed before the hunter made a hasty retreat out the door, reminding Castiel to call him he finds trouble.

With the door shut, Castiel stretched out his hands over his head, his spine popping several places. On shuffling feet, he hobbled into the bathroom, taking care to turn the lock on the door and test the doorknob, just in case. When he was satisfied that he was well enough hidden away, he stripped down and allowed his wings to change from ink to flesh and bone. It was a tight fit in the tiled shower stall, but the water sluicing over his feathered appendages felt too good to pass the opportunity up.

In the privacy of the bathroom, Castiel began to wonder about the significance of Dean’s blush. But with sleep still clouding his mind, he could grasp no reasonable answer.

In fact, Castiel was still so tired that it was a sheer stroke of luck that he heard rustling on the other side of the bathroom door before he went to opened it.

“Cas?” He heard Dean call out. “It’s just me. Did I leave my wallet in there?”

He glanced over his shoulder and, sure enough, there on the bathroom vanity was a wallet. “Yeah, hang on.”

With haste, Castiel focused his energy into folding his wings back into ink. By the time he was finished, he was breathing hard, but he opened the door anyway. And a split second later, when he watched red creep over Dean’s entire face, Castiel realized that he’d opened the bathroom door with nothing but a towel hanging from his hips.

“Uh, here,” he said, offering Dean his wallet.

He saw what great care Dean took to avoid touching his actual skin, but the young hunter went from obviously embarrassed to suspicious in less than half a second. “Why are there feathers on the floor?”

Castiel almost bit his tongue off. Fuck. Lie, Castiel. Lie, because your life might depend on it.

“They were in my coat pockets,” he lied. "I like to, uh, collect them."

Dean’s eyes turned from the feathers and regarded Castiel carefully, but his face remained neutral.

His pulse thundering in his ribcage, Castiel leaned away from the door, preparing to shut it to signify the end of their conversation, but it was then that he took notice of Dean’s suddenly roaming eyes.

It was Castiel’s turn to blush. He shut the door quickly, cursing the sudden lurching of his stomach. Even from the other side of the door, he could still smell what he was quickly realizing was Dean's natural scent. Damn. He'd never run into someone who's scent made his stomach do cartwheels.

Castiel held his breath as he waited for Dean to leave.

Was he just smelling Dean's arousal? After all, he knew that look. It had been a long time - decades, really - since the last time he saw it leveled at him outside of seedy venues like strip clubs, but there was little doubt left in his mind that Dean found him physically attractive. And that made the situation all the worse, didn’t it, because Castiel was no pious monk. Dean was attractive, of that there was little doubt... But he’s also a hunter, Castiel reminded himself, running his hands over his arms to calm down the goosebumps that had overtaken his skin.

His wings shifted uncomfortably under his skin. One deep breath, then two, three; Castiel got all the way up to twenty before he realized that the feeling wasn’t going to go away.

 _Fuck_.

It had been so long, so long, since the last time he felt the gentle caress of a lover. He looked down at the tenting of the towel tied around his waist. Between Dean's heated look and his heady scent, Castiel knew it was little wonder.

He contemplated taking a cold shower. He genuinely did.

But it was far easier to fall into temptation, wasn’t it?

Castiel flipped the lid of the toilet down and sat upon it, back resting against the rim of the upper tank. Am I really doing this? A flick of his wrist revealed his straining erection, the pull of the cloth of the towel as it fell away almost too much. He bucked up into his own hand as he wrapped it around the base of his cock, shivering. God, he hadn’t been so turned on in ages, and it had hardly taken more than a look. A look.

In his mind, he pictured different hands in place of his own, ghosting over the leaking tip of his cock in a teasing manner before gripping it tight. He hissed, then brought his free hand to his mouth, cramming a knuckle past his lips to bite down onto, to muffle the obscene noises falling out of him. He pictured a muscular chest at his back, long, sinewy arms wrapping around him, one tight around his middle while the other slid up and down his length.

How could he be blamed? Castiel wasn’t human, but he wasn’t blind; Dean was attractive. More than attractive, when Castiel really thought on it. He imagined how the scruff around Dean’s mouth would feel were he to lay kisses, bites, upon the back of Castiel’s neck.

Less than a minute and he was falling apart, come streaking out like lightning from his cock, Castiel’s spine arched and head thrown back.

If he groaned Dean’s name as he came, no one needed to know, right?

He thought he heard a door slamming somewhere, but he was too lost in bliss to care.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter IV tags: masterbation


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fantastic artist, [Maria](http://bitchjerks.co.vu/), is responsible for all art, and is a god-damned angel.
> 
> As always, triggers/warnings are tagged at the BOTTOM of each chapter.

Dean had the key in Baby’s ignition when he paused. He forgot to ask what Cas wanted him to bring back in terms of food after his adventure to the library.

...Who was he kidding? Dean just wanted to see Castiel nearly naked again. God, here he was, getting himself ready for a good ol’ ghost hunt and he was too distracted by perving over the guy who he was supposed to be protecting.

The feathers on the bathroom floor had been weird - like, really weird - but it wasn’t as though Cas was so normal himself. The guy didn’t really bat an eyelash when Dean explained the existence of The Others. He may have only been out in the field for a few years, but even he knew that was a little strange. Then again, if accepting the existence of supernatural creatures came easy to him, why wouldn’t Castiel have had feathers in his coat pockets? The guy was in a g-string when they met for Christ’s sake - the situation in the bathroom was far from the weirdest they’d encountered together.

Instead of going back inside like a grown up, however, Dean decided to use his own phone to call Cas on the one he’d given him. Four rings, seven, nine, voicemail. Damn, did Cas get back in the shower?

Dean pulled the keys out of the ignition and shut the door as he got out of his car. The lock on their room was a little sticky, but, with a gentle wiggle of the key, Dean pushed past the doorframe and walked inside. He was less than two feet from the bathroom door, hand raised to knock, when he heard it; a heated moan, followed by his name.

And goddamn if that wasn’t one of the hottest things Dean had ever heard.

He panicked. Turning on his heel, Dean was out the door and practically running toward his car. He heard more than saw the door of their room close behind him as he climbed into the safe sanctuary Baby provided.

Dean palmed himself through his jeans, hissing at the sweet-hot friction.

He’d been face to face with the worst of the supernatural world, and yet couldn’t hold it together when a guy with the god-damned deepest blue eyes he’d ever seen whimpered his name when he jerked off.

“Fuck.” Dean almost punched the steering wheel in frustration. Almost. Instead, he swore. Swore until he was blue in the face, until his god-damn hard-on had quieted the fuck down enough for him to get his breathing under control.

There was just something about Cas, something almost ethereal that had dug its claws into the back of Dean’s mind.

Don’t get him wrong, ‘quick and easy’ could be Dean’s middle name. He liked sex - that wasn’t a secret. He was the kind of man to fall out of one person’s bed and directly into another's, because damn - there was little that beat the euphoria of a good fuck.

Which was why the entire deal with Cas was so worrisome; the guy made his fucking heart pound, made his mouth go dry. The guy smelled like apple pie and goddamn if it didn’t just get Dean’s motor going.

Cas made him feel like a fucking teenager with a crush.

But Cas was off limits. Rule one of the road; no attachments, not like that. If you die on the job, it’s best not to leave families behind. It was a sour thought that plagued Dean’s mind, wondering what would have been different if his mom hadn’t been killed, been murdered. Maybe dad wouldn’t have gone so far off the deepend, leaving Dean to clean up all of the broken pieces left behind.

When his phone rang, Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. A quick glance at the screen showed Bobby’s number, and Dean flipped the outdated hunk of junk open. “Find anything for me?”

“Yeah, got a call back from the lady who wants us to investigate. She’s older, knows a little bit more about the town than most, but I still had to do some digging.”

“Cemetery?”

“Greenwood Cemetery. It’s a fairly old place, considering the town isn’t much older than a hundred’n fifty. The lower area of the Cemetery is crammed full'a old graves, while the more recent ones are on top.”

“Top?”

“Kind of like a tiny plateau, really; graves on bottom, a steep slope, graves on top.”

“Awesome. Am I looking for something older, then?”

“Not sure. The caretaker and her husband keep chasing off bunches of kids from the local high schools who sneak past the fence after dark into a kind of hidden area in the place. To get to the top, there’s a road you can just drive your car up, but there’s also an old foot path the locals refer to as ‘Thousand Steps.’”

“Fantastic. Looks like I’ll get my workout.”

Bobby continued as if Dean wasn’t a complete smart-ass. “Lady says October is always rife with kids who bring Ouija boards and the like, but that this time is different. The security cameras they installed last summer blink out, one by one, then come back on, and there’s some kind of fog that presides over the steps in the morning after it happens.”

“Nobody hurt?”

“Not yet, but this isn’t exactly their first rodeo. Apparently, some of our predecessors worked a similar case there a few decades back. Whoever took care of the place before left the new caretakers ways to reach us if this kind of thing ever happened again. Lady thought they were crazy at first, but that’s when she started hearing the voice of a little girl crying in the night and figured she’d at least see what we have to say.”

“Good thing I was already headed up this way.”

“Speaking of which, how is the guy?”

“Cas?” He, uh,” Dean hesitated, swallowed hard. “He took all of this shit pretty well, actually. Didn’t really blink an eye when I told him that shit like ghosts are real.”

“He bring up The Devil? And what do you mean he didn’t freak out?”

“Nope. I actually asked him about it, and he just kind of shrugged me off, saying something about Sherlock Holmes.”

That got Bobby to laugh. “Well, I bet it’s a nice break from having to get people to calm down after the truth comes out. No panic attack’s a win in my book.”

Dean sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Kind of threw me off, to be honest. The guy's...”

He could practically hear Bobby raise an eyebrow. “If he’s under our protection, he’s off limits.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean scoffs. “Don’t get me wrong Bobby, he’s nice to look at-”

“I’m sure he is.”

“But... I don’t know. There’s something about him.”

That made Bobby go quiet. “You think he might be-?”

Dean ran a hand through his hair. “No, he’s just a little weird. I forgot my wallet in the bathroom, and when he opened the door to hand it to me, there were feathers on the floor.”

“Feathers?”

“Yeah, like, crow feathers or something. He looked embarrassed or something, and said they fell out of his coat pockets.”

“Oh-kay?”

Dean scoffed. “He said he collects them, but your guess is as good as mine. Otherwise, the guy’s a vault. I managed to get a little personal info from him - he talked about his sister, then mentioned once she was gone he just up and left his crazy family - but other than that? I dunno, Bobby. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“Dean, you’ve got better instincts than just about anyone else I know; if your head tells you to boogie the hell out of dodge, you better get your tap shoes, boy.”

“No, Bobby; nothing like that. He’s just...”

“Dreamy?” Dean can hear the smug smile Bobby must be wearing.

“Fuck you.” There’s venom in Dean’s voice, but it’s shadowed over by fondness.

“Alright, well, you heading out, then? Cas sticking inside for the day?”

“I let him know where I’d be, and gave him the spare phone, so if you don’t hear from me by tomorrow afternoon, call him to make sure I’m not dead. I told him that if he doesn’t want to stick around, then he’s more than welcome to leave, that the only thing I wanted was to keep him safe. If he’s there when I get back, great. If not? We’ll just have to write him off.”

“That’s the hardest part of what we do, Dean; we protect those we can, if they let us.”

“Yeah, thanks Aristotle. I’m gonna jet - I want to get to the library before it gets busy.”

Bobby had been right; Thousand Steps seemed to be a bit of a right of passage for some of the local high schoolers around Halloween. They’d go in, one by one, with only a candle to light their way, and sing out the names etched in stone on the graves their candle lit. Then, they’d climb the stairs, blow out their candles and sit, in total darkness, at the top for as long as they could.

While Dean had been in the library, Bobby had texted him the number of the woman who’d called them, the wife of the caretaker of the cemetery. He let her know he was on his way so as not to surprise her, and she said that’s she’d leave the gate open for him.

As he was parking Baby in the small visitor’s lot, he was met by a weathered face. “Molly,” she introduced herself as Dean climbed out of the driver’s seat.

“Dean.”

“Alright, let’s cut to the chase; how much this gonna cost?”

Dean shook his head. “Nothing, ma’am. This is just what we do.”

She regarded him skeptically, gave him the once over, then nodded. “What do you need to do to get ready? Got gear to set up?”

“Not much. Nothing too big.”

“You need any help?”

“Shouldn’t, but I’ll call you if I do.”

“Alright. Let me know when you’re done.”

Dean watched Molly shuffle back into the house. He walked around the back of the Impala, popped her trunk, and got to work. EMF scammer, infrared camera, heat sensor; it wasn’t much, but it got the job done more often than not, even if his gear was mostly made out of spare parts a la McGyver.

He pulled the folded up map he’d printed off in the library from his jacket pocket and surveyed the land. Bobby was right; a huge chunk of the graves that populated the lower part of the cemetery were older. Attaching the EMF reader on his belt, he ducked his head under the strap for the infrared camera and let it fall against his chest. Next he slid an iron charm, attached to a leather strap, around his neck. A shaker full of salt was loaded in each his right and left jean pocket, just in case.

By the time he’d finished doing a quick sweep-down of the lower portion of the cemetery, Dean still hadn’t found anything unusual. Without any more pussy-footing around, he decided to go straight to the source. He stopped by the Impala on his way back and fished a flashlight out of her trunk.

Thousand Steps should really have been called Less Than One Hundred Steps, but since Dean's thighs weren't complaining, he didn't either. Dark had long since settled over the cemetery, but despite being surrounded by graves, Dean felt at ease. The scent of pine needles thick in the air, the twinkle of stars peeking between the branches of the trees; Dean liked towns like that. Populated, but not overcrowded, with little light pollution.

It was ten minutes after midnight when the EMF reader hooked on his belt loop started to sound off. The needle twitched and danced - green-yellow-red-yellow-red-yellow-green - and Dean forced himself to keep from jumping. No matter how many cases he'd been on, butterflies always fluttered about his stomach when the job picked up. He pulled his headphones from around his neck and slid them over his ears.

"Hello?"

Someone sniffled.

“I can hear you crying. Hello?”

He heard a gasp, though it sounded mostly like static. "You can... you can hear me?"

Dean smiled, even though he didn't know where to look. The voice was small, quiet, and obviously belonged to a little girl. "Yeah, sweetie, I can hear you."

"Have you come to bother me like the others?"

"Nope. I came here hoping to help you."

Static, sniffles, then quiet. "I don't like when the older boys come here. They yell mean things at me because they want me to talk to them."

"Yeah, people are stupid."

A flighty laugh, jaunty. Dean smiled. "Do you know how to materialize?"

Silence. "Material-eyes?"

Shit. Dean didn't like working those kinds of cases, the kinds where little little kids were the spirits in question. It always hit him a too close to his heart. “Can you make it so I can see you?”

Dean stood still, his breath fogging in the air as he exhaled. He saw a flash of white out of the corner of his vision, and when he turned, there was a young girl standing on the steps, looking no older than six or seven.

“What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Felicity.”

“Felicity, eh? That’s a pretty name.”

Incorporeal hands fidgeted with the hem of a dress than wasn’t actually made of fabric.

“I’m Dean.” God, he looked at the ;little ghost and his mind instantly went to Sammy when he was that young. Part of him ached, but another steeled itself. “Do you know why I’m here?”

Felicity shrugged. “It’s probably because I’m dead, huh?”

That nearly knocked the wind out of him. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Felicity offered with a sigh. “I knew something was wrong when mommy and daddy couldn’t see or hear me anymore. I saw them put a coffin in the ground. I think it was mine.”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. God, she’d been so young. “I wanna help you, but I’m gonna need help from you first.”

The child looked up at him and nodded.

“You’re stuck here in the cemetery, aren’t you?”

Another nod.

“That means there’s something that’s holding you here, to this world. Did your parents leave something of yours behind? On your grave or-”

Felicity pointed toward the stairs. “My bear. Mommy put it on the place I’m buried, but some of the mean boys took it and threw it into the bushes.”

Twenty minutes later, Dean had found the bear. It was soggy from the autumn rain prevalent in the Pacific Northwest, but it was still relatively clean-looking. Given how sweet Felicity’s spirit seemed, coupled with the fact that the bear didn’t look too dirty, Dean guessed the poor girl had only been dead for a week at most.

“This is gonna look kind of silly, but I have to burn your bear.”

Felicity’s eyes narrowed. “Why? What did he do?”

“He’s keeping you here; with him gone, you’ll be able to rest.”

“Rest? You mean like going sleep?”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek so hard it bled. “Yeah, like going to sleep.”

The girl trailed behind him as Dean began back toward the Impala. Despite how soggy the bear was, he was able to wring much of the moisture away, but what little remained was no match for copious amounts of lighter fluid.

“Dean?” Felicity’s voice made him pause, match lit in his hand.

He looked at her with his heart in his throat. “Yeah, sweetie?”

“Thank you.”

He didn’t hesitate another moment; Dean tossed the match into the bowl he’d placed the bear in. As the stuffed animal went up in flames, Felicity did as well.

God damn. The taste of copper permeated his mouth, while the smell of smoke and ash dispersed into the air. Dean didn’t bother calling Molly; he threw his things into Baby’s back seat and sent the old woman a text message, informing her that the job was done.

If Dean shed tears on his way back to the motel, no one was there to see.

Baby’s purring died as he parked her, slipping the key from the ignition. For several minutes, Dean just sat there, reining in his breathing. When he had that under control, he dug his phone back out and called one of the few men in the world he knew would listen without judging.

Henry Winchester picked up on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, grandpa.”

“Dean? You alright?”

The man had been retired for some time now, but Dean still loved to talk to him, listen to his stories from a different time.

“Just a hard job, that’s all. Got a little worked up.”

“I heard through the grapevine that Mr. Singer set you up with a local spectre problem.”

“Taken care of. It’s just...”

“Just what, son?”

“She was just a kid.”

Henry sighed into the phone, and Dean could practically hear the man’s age through the gesture. “We do what we can to help who we can. And sometimes, they take a little something with us when the job’s over and done with.”

“Thanks, grandpa.”

Dean hung up the phone, feeling better than he had when he’d flipped it open in the first place. Being a what he was? It was hard, sometime ridiculously so, but Dean had never really seen himself fit for any other kind of life. Sure, when he stayed with Bobby he’d help around the shop, but he really didn’t think he could make a career out of it. Salt and burn was all he knew.

Speaking of Bobby, Dean’s phone rang. “Talk about good timing. I just took care of the spirit - nothing malevolent.”

“Got some interesting news.”

Dean froze. “What kind of news?”

“Apparently, when our team went in to survey the club, they found something unusual. Turns out, in addition to the blood of the poor bastard that got his head blown up, they also found the blood of a Seraph.”

“A Seraph? Like, an angel? They’re supposed to be extinct; no one’s seen on in, what? Half a millennium.”

“Yup.”

“They’re sure?”

“Ran three sets of tests, same results each time.”

“What does that mean, Bobby? There’s someone else that was there at the scene?”

“Your boy Cas there had an awful lot of blood on him when you found him, didn’t he?”

Dean scoffed. “I helped him get cleaned up; there’s no way I wouldn’t have seen bullet holes. The guy was in a g-string for fuck’s sake.”

“I remember you telling me quite clearly how calm he was when you told him the truth about The Others.”

Dean blanched, his stomach dropping low enough to pool on the floor of the Impala’s foot well. “Jesus, Bobby, you think that-”

“There was no one else there.”

“Fuck,” Dean growled, hitting the steering wheel with his palm. “Those feathers I saw in the bathroom-”

“You still know where he’s at?”

“I can see a light on in our room, but I don’t have high hopes he stuck around.” Dean was already running across the parking lot as quickly and quietly as his feet could manage. “I’ll let you know what happens.” With the phone flipped shut, Dean stuffed it into his coat pocket and carefully extracted his key. Like earlier in the day, the lock was a little sticky, but it wasn’t more than a few seconds before the knob turned and Dean rushed into the room.

Across the room, Cas was on his bed, situated on his hands and knees, shirtless and dripping with sweat and blood. His breathing was loud, stuttering with each new lungful of air he inhaled. Below him, amidst a pile of bedding, was an empty vial, and above him were two coal-black wings, half-extended and fidgeting restlessly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter V tags: mentions of masturbation, dirty thoughts, mentions of/aftermath of a child's death, blood


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My fantastic artist, [Maria](http://bitchjerks.co.vu/), is responsible for all art, and is a god-damned angel.
> 
> As always, triggers/warnings are tagged at the BOTTOM of each chapter.

Castiel turned up the collar on his trenchcoat. The bitter cold was seeping into his bones, deeper and deeper, but he figured it was a small price to pay considering what the alternative would be.

It was nearly midnight. The area of the city he was in - likely downtown, given the tall buildings - was mostly quiet. A few bars here and there had their lights on, but otherwise, the night air was quiet and crisp. The only somewhat frequent sound were the cars on the interstate overpass that was lifted above a part of the area, cutting through downtown, at the bottom of a large hill. If Castiel was going to find what he needed, it would be there.

It took him a while to find it, an old skate-park covered in graffiti. A few young men were actually skating, but there was a crowd gathered of about a dozen people that regarded Castiel with suspicious eyes as he slowly approached.

“Looking for something?”

Castiel tilted his head. “Depends. What have you got?”

That earned him a smile. “What you need?”

Shifting his weight slowly from one foot to another, Castiel regarded the group carefully. Several of them were carrying handguns; even though Castiel couldn’t outright see them, he knew the outline well.

“No trouble. Just looking to keep something inside.”

Several of the strangers gave him a once over, but it was a while before any of them spoke. “How long you looking for?”

He’d counted his money before he left. It wasn’t much, but it would buy him enough time before he could get away from Dean. “Just a few days.”

The speaker nodded sideways at one of the other strangers, and he slowly began toward Castiel. In turn, Castiel slowly procured the cash from his pocket. The man handed him a small vial, and he handed the stranger what little he had.

Castiel nodded in thanks and began back the way he came.

When he reached the motel, his hands were shaking. At first, Castiel thought that perhaps he was just cold, or coming off the adrenaline high, but as his body began to warm up, he realized what was really going on. Without another moment of hesitation, he pulled the vial open and downed the contents in one go.

“No,” he gasped, miserably. He pulled his trench coat off, then struggled with the buttons of his shirt. “No. I’ve only been off for a few days. This is too much, it’s too soon, I-”

His wings ripped from his back, shredding his shirt. The effort to keep himself upright was too much and he slunk to the bed, but somehow managed to keep on his hands and knees.

And, because Lady Luck is a bitch and a half, the door rattled and in walked one Dean Winchester.

The door closed behind the hunter, the sound making the both of them jump. Even so, Dean kept his eyes trained on Castiel.

Castiel considered his options. He could run to the bathroom, but he couldn’t remember if there were bars on the window or not. He could try the window to Dean’s left, but he thought that might be barred, too. He could rush Dean, try to knock him down long enough to push past the door - once he was outside, he could fly. Not for very long, not in his condition, but long enough to lose Dean.

Or maybe that was the universe trying to tell him something. His brother had shot him, after all, ignoring the fact that his magic, completely and utterly without regard to what Castiel wanted, had pushed the bullets out and closed his wounds in less than a minute. Maybe it really was his time to go.

For the second time in as many days, Castiel accepted that his death was a close inevitability. Regardless of how his wings were twitching, of how erratic his heartbeat was, Castiel leaned his head back, exposing his throat.

“Make it quick.” His last words wouldn’t be him begging or pleading.

He heard Dean sigh from across the room. “Make it - Jesus, Cas, I’m not going to kill you.”

Castiel’s head snapped down and he glared at the man across the room from him. “You’re a hunter.”

Dean, eyes round with disbelief, shook his head. “What are you talking about? I’m not a hunter.”

Glaring, Castiel huffed. “You told me yourself that you hunt down the supernatural.”

“Oh, shit - no, Cas, that’s not what I meant. I’m not a hunter, I’m a Keeper.”

Castiel’s wings shot out behind him, stretching and trembling, a defensive maneuver that was absolute instinct. “I will not be kept.”

Across the room, Dean threw up his hands. “No, Cas. No, that’s not - I’m not going to, like, kidnap you or something. I’m a Keeper; I find supernatural creatures and beings and help when I can, keeping their existence secret from the masses. I’m a Peace Keeper.”

Castiel weighed his options in his head, which was quickly becoming clouded. “Your gun,” he finally ground out.

Slowly, Dean pulled his gun from it’s holster. Slowly, he unclipped it and popped the bullet in the chamber. Then, he disassembled what he could of the rest of the gun and sent it all scattering to the floor. “I’m not here to hurt you, Cas.”

Castiel collapsed, his eyes rolling back into his head.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter VI tags: blood/minor gore, drug use


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, triggers/warnings are tagged at the BOTTOM of each chapter.

It took twenty minutes before Castiel stopped seizing and another ten before he woke. All in all, it was one of the worst spans of thirty minutes of Dean’s life, but considering he wasn’t bleeding, broken, or in any other way maimed or hurt, he decided he’d count it as very small victory.

Too bad the same couldn’t be said for Cas.

By the time the Seraph had woken, Dean had already set to work cleaning what he could; Cas’ back was torn up something bad.

When Cas’ eyes opened, Dean froze, warm washcloth in his hands. “Is... is this alright?”

Cas’ response was a pained groan. But when Dean gently pressed the cloth to his back, Cas sighed and closed his eyes again.

“I’m sorry for making you think I was a hunter,” he offered, lamely. “It’s usually just easier to tell people that I hunt the supernatural instead of trying to explain what, exactly, I am.”

“I still don’t understand what you are.”

“How long have you been on the run, Cas?”

When there was no answer, Dean took the silence to mean, ‘a seriously long time.’

“With the information age sprouting up here in the last few decades, it’s been easier and easier for my kind, The Keepers, to help where we’re needed.”

“You were on a hunt today, weren’t you?”

Dean grimaced. “Yes and no. Caretakers of the cemetery noticed some weird stuff - and believe me when I say that most funeral directors and cemetery caretakers can overlook a lot of weird stuff before they actually consider it weird - and wanted someone to check it out. I found a restless spirit there, a little girl. She’d died, and her mom and dad had left her stuffed bear on her headstone. Apparently, some of the local kids have been sneaking into the cemetery after hours, some kind of weird high school rite of passage. Girl’s bear got separated from her headstone and thrown into the woods. Found the bear, burned it, and put the girl’s soul to rest.”

Castiel sighed. Slowly, and with great effort, he pushed himself up so that he could sit. He folded his legs under him and wings behind him.

For several minutes, Cas just let Dean gawk.

“So,” the human finally broke the silence. “Seraph, huh?”

Dean watched at Cas’ wings fluffed slightly. “Indeed. How much do you know about my kind?”

“Not much. Most of what we can find in our books and scrolls said your kind went extinct a while back, and since no one’s seen one of you in centuries, we kind of figured that was the case. I remember a few diagrams from my younger days of your guy’s physiology. There’s not a Keeper I know that didn’t go through their own ‘Seraph’ phase; your kind used to be revered by man, and then you all just disappeared. Who doesn’t want to solve a mystery like that?”

“We are not extinct.”

“Well, I can see that, now. Wait. You said we- there are more of you out there?”

Castiel bowed his head.

Dean noticed how tired he looked. “How many of you are left?”

Melancholy swept over Cas’ features, and Dean felt like an asshole all over again.

“I don’t know. I have other siblings, though I’m not sure who is still left alive. I had two particular elder brothers that gained a large following, and while I know one of them is still alive, I can’t speak for the other. I haven’t seen my family in...” Cas sighed as he trailed off.

Dean didn’t even realize he’d been leaning forward, hungrily eating up Cas’ every word until he was less than a foot away from the guy’s face. He pulled back, scrubbing at the back of his head with his short-trimmed finger nails. “Sorry.”

Cas didn’t move. He was hardly breathing.

“You, uh, want me to finish up your back?”

This time, Cas cringed. But he looked tired, and Dean wasn’t completely surprised when the Seraph turned around to let Dean have better access to his back.

“So, those wing tattoos...” Dean couldn’t help the smile that cracked his face.

Huffing a laugh in front of him, Cas looked over his shoulder.

Dean, gently wiping at the space below Cas’ left wing, looked over the skin carefully. “You’re bloody, but it doesn’t look like you have any cuts left.”

“My kind...”

There was a sudden tension in the air. Dean shifted uncomfortably. “Hey, sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I’m just nosey by nature.”

He’d almost finished wiping Cas’ back down when the Seraph sighed. “My kind heals quickly, provided we have enough magic stored.”

Dean swallowed. “Bobby called when I was outside. He said that the team we sent to clean up the mess at your club found Seraph blood.”

Cas nodded. “Lucifer shot me. Three times, in fact.”

Dean went still as stone. He swallowed the stone that has formed in his throat. “Cas, how do you know his name?” He knew he’d told Cas that bastard’s code name - The Devil - but he did not, would not have, told Cas such sensitive information like the guy’s name.

The air in the room changed instantly. Dean was toppled over when Cas turned around sharply, bowled over by the wing that knocked him square in the chest. He sat on the motel room floor, looking up at the ceiling, his knees bent and the lower portions of his legs still resting on the bed.

For lack of a better idea of what to do with himself, Dean just remained there, on the floor.

He heard Cas shudder his way through a sigh. “Lucifer is... Lucifer is my brother.”

That got Dean off his ass. His brain tried to process a million things a millisecond, which only resulted in Dean stuttering dumbly. He gazed up at Cas’ form on the bed, the Seraph slowly pushing himself against the far wall, his wings coming around to shield him from the rest of the room. “That’s why I stuck around.”

Dean couldn’t brain. “What?”

Cas sighed, the sound somewhat irritated. “That’s why, even though I thought you were a hunter, I stuck around. You said that Lucifer had your mom’s blood on his hands. I was waiting until I’d gained back enough of my power to put a spell of protection on you before I disappeared. Considering your mom is dead because of my family, it was the least I could do, especially after you offered me so much kindness.”

Jesus Hernandez Christ. Cas, thinking Dean was a fucking hunter, was planning on sticking around long enough to make sure that Dean was safe before he bailed.

Dean pushed himself to his feet and began to pace. Not knowing what to do with his hands, he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Fuck, Cas,” he finally breathed out.

“You were kind to me,” Cas continued. “You were kind to me, and I wanted to repay the favor. When you told me what my family had done to yours, I couldn’t just leave.”

“Yeah, you could have, Cas. And it would have made your life a lot easier.”

Cas’ smile was more of a grimace, really. “I’m not that kind of man.”

This time, Dean smiled. “Yeah, neither am I.”

The tension drained out of the room. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get the rest of you cleaned up.”

The Seraph nodded and turned without another word.

Dean wiped down the rest of Cas' back, watching, entrapped, as the muscles beneath his skin flexed in ways Dean wasn't familiar with. When he finished, he hesitated. He grew up devouring lore on Seraphs. What Keeper didn't? But while Dean was keeping a straight face, internally he was absolutely ecstatic. He'd done it; he'd found a Seraph. Not that he'd actually been looking for one, but still. The point stood; he was the first person to knowingly encounter a Seraph in... Shit, what? Centuries?

With his mind wandering, Dean had been too busy in his own thought to notice the change in Castiel. But when the warm washcloth in his hand grazed one of Cas' wings, Dean snapped back to reality. The Seraph shuddered, sucked in a rough breath, then froze.

“You, uh. You okay, Cas?”

Dean heard Cas swallow thickly, could see it from the way the Seraph’s throat moved.

“It’s been... It’s been a long time since someone else has touched my wings.”

The truth, the sadness, behind Cas’ admission, nearly broke Dean's heart. Seraphs were social creatures. They had to be; without proper maintenance and grooming by their own kind, a Seraph's wings...

Dean's stomach soured. He should have noticed it earlier, the state Cas' wings were in. Feathers with twists and knots in them, others matted together; Cas' wings were in rough shape.

"Over a century."

Dean's head snapped up. Cas was glancing over his shoulder at him, deep blue tired and just a little nervous. "What?"

"I had a feeling you were going to ask how long it’s been."

The breath caught in Dean's throat. A century - one hundred years - since the last time Cas let anyone touch his wings.

Seemingly unperturbed, Cas shrugged. "After my sister died, I left my family behind. I've been on the run ever since. I was never able to get to know someone well enough to ask."

Dean nodded, knowing well that a great deal of trust was needed for a Seraph to feel comfortable enough around someone to ask them to help groom their wings. Which was, of course, why Dean was floored by the next words out of his own mouth. “I can help, if you’d like.”

Meeting Dean with scrutiny, Cas’ face scrunched as fell into thought. Dean shifted uncomfortably, somewhat taken aback by his own brazenness. Of course Cas wouldn’t want him to touch his wings - why would he? Dean knew he wasn’t anything special.

But, after a moment, Cas nodded and shifted on the bed.

Dean swallowed, but it didn’t force the lump in his throat very far. “You... you sure?”

Cas shrugged. "If you wanted to kill me, you've had a dozen chances to." The finality in Cas' voice was what got Dean's hands moving; there wasn't a snowflake's chance in hell he was going to miss that kind of opportunity.

"What, uh, what do you need me to do?"

Cas hesitated, shifted uncomfortably. "I..."

"You've got, like, oil glands, right?"

Cas sighs. "Yes." His voice is full of relief. “You won’t like the smell, though. I do apologize for that.”

“Hey, no judgement here. Don’t worry about it.”

If Dean were to recant this particular story later in life, he'd leave out the bit where his hands were trembling as he reached out, fingers combing through feathers as dark as night. There, where feathers met skin, just where he knew it would be, was a bump that Dean gently ran his fingers over. Cas shivered at the contact, but otherwise remained motionless save for his breathing. Dean continued, applying a gentle pressure to the bump, feeling a warm liquid well up under the pads of his fingers.

Cas stiffened in front of him,a move accompanied by a halt in his breathing, but Dean didn't bother hesitating any longer. With gentle movements, he swiped his fingers through the warm liquid, then began threading them through the mess of feathers before him.

Cas relaxed. In fact, if Dean could trust his ears, he even thought he heard Cas sigh, but if he did, Dean didn't hear the noise again. With the assistance of the oil, Dean made decent work of repairing what he could of the mess of feathers before him. He combed his fingers through the inky-mass with more care than he'd shown anything in a long while, trying to keep his movements gentle and soothing. Cas' decision to trust him was no small gesture, and Dean wanted to make damn sure the Seraph didn't come to regret it.

“I thought you guys could hide your wings when you wanted to.”

“Normally, yes, but certain things can force us to... reveal them.”

Dean’s hands stuttered. “You okay? You hurt or-”

“No, Dean. I’m not hurt. But thank you for asking. Hiding our wings doesn’t take much of our magics, but it needs a constant trickle of it. Healing after being shot by my brother took too much out of me. Earlier tonight I... I went out. Found some rather unsavory people.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Dean tried not to betray his worry by keeping his hands steady.

“I needed a boost. What I got was at least three times more potent of a dose than I’m used to. Whoever cut the stuff messed up the dosage, or whoever it was that gave me what I wanted didn’t pay enough attention to what he was giving me.”

Fuck. Dean bit the inside of his cheek to keep from opening his mouth. That was likely why Cas was working as a stripper when he’d met the guy; magic-imbued concoctions do not come cheap, and never legally. If he’d been running from his family and hiding himself from humans, too, it was little wonder the guy was flat broke.

Continuing, Cas sighed. “An overabundance of magic in our system forces certain things, the appearance of wings being one of them. That’s why most Seraphim prefer to live far away from even small populations of humans - there’s no risk of being found out if we accidentally come into contact with more magic than our bodies can regulate.”

Dean sat, entrapped, and listened greedily to every word that poured out of Cas’ mouth. He kept his fingers steady as he worked the through the mess of feathers. Hell, Dean had finished an entire wing before he managed to get a single word in.

"Can I say something weird?"

Cas tilted his head to the side and leveled him with a questioning gaze as if to ask, 'this isn't weird enough for you?'

"You smell really good. Like cinnamon and apple pie."

And because he’s Dean-god-damned-Winchester and that’s just how his luck goes, Dean once again found himself flat on his back on the motel room floor. He sighed, perhaps a little dejectedly considering he’d become quite bored with being sprawled on the floor, but no longer had the capacity for shame regarding what was becoming a regularity in Cas’ company.

But Cas, pressed up against the headboard, sat with eyes like saucers, staring at Dean like he’d grown three extra heads, a tail, and laid a clutch of eggs.

Sitting up with a slight wince - there was practically no padding under the shitty, low-pile motel carpet - Dean gave Cas a suspicious once over. “Care to tell me what I did wrong there, buddy? Because now my ass hurts, and I’m a little confused.”

Cas’ face was scarlet.

Dean paused.

Was Cas... was Cas blushing?

“Uhh, Cas?”

The angel’s head snapped to the side, and for a moment Dean worried that Cas was getting ready to bolt out the door. But, after several moments - and several deep breaths - Cas calmed himself enough to turn back to Dean.

“You shouldn’t... you shouldn’t be able to smell me.”

“You apologized earlier because you said it would stink.”

Cas barked out a strange sound, a half-strangled laugh that lost it’s gusto and pittered out into a shrill whine. “No, you shouldn’t - that is to say - god fucking damn it.”

Dean’s lips were pursed together in a tight line. Whatever was wrong had Cas all up in some kind of tizzy. He watched as Cas scrubbed at his face with his hands.

“I shouldn’t smell good to you.”

Dean, who’d come to hoist himself up on the far edge of the bed, looked at Castiel with trepidation, moved slowly, methodically. He wasn’t sure what Cas was talking about, but it obviously had the angel spooked. “Okay, well, you do. Like I said, you smell like apple pie. Cinnamon and apple pie.”

Cas groaned, slouching over his lap.

“You seem pretty upset about this. Care to elaborate?”

It was nearly a full minute before Castiel spoke again. “Family members and mates are the only ones who enjoy the scent of an Seraphim.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Dean blanched. There were a lot of things he expected, but that wasn’t one of them.

“You’re not family, obviously, so that just leaves...”

Cas’ eyes were cast down, looking anywhere and everywhere except Dean.

Meanwhile, Dean just sat there at the end of the bed with his mouth hanging open like he’d been struck dumb with the business end of a cinderblock.

The lore he’d read over the years didn’t have much on Seraph mating habits, but there was enough still lodged in his brain that came together when Cas had spoken; it was an old story, one that wasn’t necessarily the same depending on what lore one had managed to find, but the idea, mostly, was the same throughout, that there was a bond Seraphim revered that, translated from their native Enochian, literally meant ‘same soul.’

But Dean had thought those old tales were just that - nothing but stories. Soul mates? Pfft, what a ridiculous idea, that two people could be so perfect for one another that the universe, in it’s limitless expanse, should bring two people together, two beings who were simply made for one another.

And then Cas caught his gaze, and Dean’s heart skipped a beat. The hope etched into the nearly permanent downtrodden look Cas wore tore at Dean, opened a wound in him he thought had long-since scarred over. Sky blue eyes, round and just a little afraid, stared back at him, and it was only then, in hindsight, that Dean realized what he’d already done to keep Cas at his side in the scant few days they’d spent in one another’s company; he’d called in a personal favor for Garth to check Cas out when they’d first met because he wanted to make sure he was alright, had made sure that Cas was comfortable during his time at the precinct, had fed Cas on their way back to Cas’ car, had refused to pull over until he was sure he and Cas were far enough away that The Devil couldn’t reach them. And that last thought, that was what sealed it; Dean had spent years tracking Lucifer down, and he’d given up his chance at capturing him because of Cas.

Like a magnet, he moved toward Cas, gravitated toward the angel, who swallowed thickly at his approach. Slowly, Dean reached out, cupping Cas’ face in both of his hands. Dark stubble scratched his palms, burning pleasantly, and before Dean could overthink the situation, the action, he leaned forward and stole up Cas’ lips in a gentle kiss.

And god, it was like the crack of thunder in the muted silence of a rainstorm, like the first frosty breath of winter, the first wildflower of spring. The earth was shattering beneath their feet, the stars crumbling above their heads, except not, because it was real, this bond that they shared, this bond that they had almost missed because of time and circumstance and just god-damned bad luck.

Cas gasped against his lips, and then kissed Dean back, one hand fisted in Dean’s shirt and the other wound around his neck. It was equal parts terrifying and euphoric, this great yet fragile thing they’ve almost overlooked.

Dean felt a piece of him, a gaping chasm he simply assumed would always be there, stitch itself together, and hope and desire swam in his veins instead of blood. With brazen boldness, he let slip one hand from Cas’ face, his fingertips dragging over warm skin until they paused above Cas’ heart. He pushed the Seraph backward until he laid flat on the bed, wings stretched out on either side.

It was there that Cas pulled his lips away from Dean’s. Dean searched his face, worried. He watched as Cas took several deep breaths. “Is this... Is this real?” In his voice was anguish, the kind only heard when someone knows what it’s like to have something precious only for it to be stolen away.

“Oh, God, I hope so,” Dean replied, licking his lips.

The way Cas hesitated made Dean feel a cold rush of fear. But all of it - the trepidation, the anxiety, the guilt - was washed away when Cas pulled Dean forward and crushed their mouths together again. Dean, however, couldn’t help pitching forward with the force Cas used to pull them together, and he toppled over the angel, thighs astride Cas’ own, arms bent at the elbow and bracketing Cas’ head.

They were a tangle of limbs as they moved against one another, both so overcome with the gift they’d been given that neither of them cared to pause and scrutinize it, only pushing forward with fervent kisses and tremulous touches. Dean only realized he’d been stripped bare when Cas’ hand, hot and heavy, encircled his cock. His movement stuttered, and he pressed his face against Cas’ neck, gasping.

“Dean,” Cas keened, voice throaty and low, wrecked, and it made Dean shudder all the more when Cas’ cock was slotted against his own in the grip of a calloused, warm hand.

“Dean,” Cas gasped as Dean bit down on the soft flesh where Cas’ neck met his shoulders.

“Dean,” Cas whispered, when he came, eyes twisted shut, gasping for air, wings fanning out and trembling .

That’s all it took - the call of his name - before Dean was lost in the heat that made up the beautiful being beneath him. He gasped Cas’ name, nearly choked on it, overcome by how mad they’d both been driven by something that started with a simple kiss.

It was Dean who sat up first, and left Cas in the bed, still panting, his arm thrown over his eyes, his cheeks and chest still flushed. Procuring a clean washcloth from the bathroom, Dean returned and set about gently cleaning his angel up. Cas hissed when Dean touched his cock , still sensitive, but made no other sounds of protest.

It wasn’t until Dean returned from the bathroom after tossing the sullied cloth into the tub that he began to worry. There, just as he’d left him, was Cas, sprawled out along the bed, arm still thrown over his eyes.

“You, uh. You okay, Cas?”

Cas’ hesitance made Dean worry, and the answer he received wasn’t any better. “I don’t... I don’t know.”

If there is one thing the universe isn’t when it comes to Dean Winchester it’s kind. His cell, in his pants pocket and somehow across the room, blared part of a Led Zeppelin Song. Dean swore as he hopped across the room on one foot, the other being shoved down one of the leg holes of his boxers.

“This is Dean.”

“Whatever you did up here, it didn’t work.”

“Molly? What happened?”

“I wasn’t sure if I should call the cops or not, so I haven’t yet, but whatever you did out in the cemetery didn’t work.”

Dean swore, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, but my husband went out about twenty minutes ago and hasn’t come back. He took his walkie-talkie, just like when he does his rounds, and he’s not responding.”

On the other side of the phone, Dean heard a tremendous thumping sound. “Molly?”

He heard the shuffle of clothing, the staccato of footsteps, and the tell-tale sound of a door squeaking open on old hinges.

Molly screamed. The phone went dead.

Dean jammed his shirt over his head, shoving his feet into his boots near the door. He jumped when Cas approached him, pants and shoes already on, bare-chested with wings trailing behind him.

“Oh, no. You’re under my protection. I can’t let you-”

Cas, surprisingly, cut him off with a kiss, though the look on his face was stern. “I’ve only just found you. I’m not going to lose you.”

Dean wanted to say something in reply, maybe something snarky about how he’s been taking care of himself for nearly his entire life, but the retort died before it reached his mouth. He knew if their roles were reversed, nothing would keep him from Cas’ side. So, instead, Dean pushed forward and planted a kiss on Cas’ lips, then threw open the door.

Thank the stars that it was the middle of the night. Surprisingly, Cas crammed his wings into the Impala with ease; once seated in the front passenger’s seat, he leaned forward and pushed his wings over the top of the seat, letting them drape over the and into the back. Dean, however, didn’t allow himself even a moment to laugh and shake his head at the sight; as soon as Cas’ door was shut, he floored it out of the parking lot and raced onto the darkened streets.

Small town that it was, most of the lights in the downtown area had been shut off and were blinking either red or yellow for stop or yield, and Dean made it well known how he felt about it. He thought, just for a second, he might have heard Cas huff a laugh, but the sound was lost as the engine roared. Between curses, Dean filled Cas in on what he’d done at the cemetery earlier that night.

The gate to the cemetery was closed and locked when they arrived, and Dean pulled to a stop just outside. Baby’s keys got shoved in a pocket, right after he unlatched the trunk. As Cas came around from the other side, Dean couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt when the angel looked down at the various items in his trunk. Sure, The Keepers were meant to keep order, keep secrets, keep peace, but sometimes that also meant making sure there was a minimal amount of collateral damage accrued.

Dean handed Cas a shotgun. “You know how to use this?”

Solemnly, Cas nodded.

“It’s rocksalt, so it’s not fatal, but it’ll sure slow down whatever you shoot.”

“What’s the plan?”

Dean finished loading himself up; silver knives, holy water, anything and everything in his arsenal he could fit on his person.

“I don’t think it’s the little girl from earlier; she was too new a spirit to become jaded enough to actually hurt someone. It’s takes quite a while for a remaining spirit to master doing anything in the physical world short of making the temperature drop a few degrees or the needle jump on an EMF reader, but-”

A woman’s scream, high and shrill, echoed through the spaces between the trees, and Dean and Cas began toward the house as quickly as they could. It took them each a moment to hop the gate - a big, gaudy wrought-iron beast easily seven feet tall - but as soon as the soles of their shoes hit the pavement on the other side, they took off at a run. There, hardly a stone’s throw in front of them, was the only house on site, the lights on, the screen door hanging off its hinges.

Flanking either side of the front door, Dean and Cas paused before they pressed onward, guns drawn at the ready. It may have not been Dean’s first rodeo, but his heart was hammering away in his chest, feeling as though it would bust through his rib cage at any moment. But, somehow, with Cas at his side, he felt more focused, centered.

Their footfalls were muted by the carpet under their feet as they entered the house. The entirety of the residence was in disarray; pictures sitting in broken frames on the floor, gaping holes in the walls, blood spattered every so often, looking like so much paint.

Looking over his shoulder, Dean caught Cas’ gaze. He motioned toward the hallway with a jerk of his head, and Cas nodded in understanding, falling easily into step behind him. As he rounded the corner and entered the kitchen, Dean’s blood ran cold in his veins; in a heap on the floor, surrounded by so much blood, Molly laid, eyes open and glazed, unmoving.

The acrid taste of bile rose in his throat, but a small noise brought his attention to the side. As Dean turned, watching out of the corner of his eye as Cas followed his gaze with the muzzle of his shotgun, a figure walked out of the shadow cast by the back door.

“I was wondering when I’d get to see you again, little brother.”

Dean was often the kind of man who shot first and asked questions later; this was one of those times. In the time it took Cas to speak his brother’s name aloud, Dean lodged three bullets into Lucifer’s chest.

If Dean had shot a normal human being, his target would lie dead, or ready to breach the pearly gates forthwith. But Dean hadn’t come prepared for another Seraph, and Lucifer, looking almost bored, took a deep breath, and the holes Dean’s bullets had made stitched themselves back together.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow at Dean, looking annoyed.

It was then that Castiel laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder and pulled the human behind him, acting as a shield. Dean almost opened his mouth to protest, but the look of fear on his angel’s face made Dean’s words dry up in his throat.

“I’m disappointed, Cassie. I can smell that human all over you. To think you’d stoop so low-”

“What are you doing here?” Cas was all business, and the firmness in his tone helped assure Dean.

The Devil cocked his head, amused that his brother wasn’t going to play his game. “I want what I’ve always wanted; I want you to join me.”

Cas scoffed. “Join you? Even after all this time, you’re still so full of yourself. I don’t know who’s worse; you or Michael.”

Lucifer snarled. “We are nothing alike! He wants to kill them all! Don’t you see, Castiel? I want to rule them. I will make them bow as we pass by, kiss our boots when we but say the word.”

Dean’s mind was running a mile a minute; what had Cas said about Seraph’s healing abilities versus their magic regulation? Cas hadn’t been able to fly away after his encounter with Lucifer back at the strip club, after his body had stitched itself back together. Dean didn’t have anything left in his gun, but he had a spare magazine in his pocket. Slowly, trying to use Cas’ body to shield his movement, Dean let his hand fall from his pistol, inching slowly toward his pocket.

Lucifer’s eyes, however, snapped to his, and he launched himself at the two of them, hissing and spitting. The shotgun in Cas’ grip was slapped to the floor, and Dean barely had half a second to maneuver himself in such a way that when Cas’ body collided with his, he kept a grip on his gun. Dean, obviously, hit the floor first, and the wind was knocked from his lungs in a heaving rush, only worsened when Cas landed on top of him.

Cas, however, didn’t stay down for long. His wings, ripping from his back, snapped out as he stood up and lunged at his brother.

Meanwhile, Dean, still on the floor and struggling for breath, jammed his hand into his pocket and pulled his extra clip free, expelling the spend cartridge from his pistol and lining the new one up. He watched from the floor as Castiel and Lucifer threw punches, Dean only just noticing that The Devil had pulled his wings free, the appendages twisted and messy, feathers the color of blood.

With Cas and his brother grappling, moving so quickly they were nearly blurred in his vision, Dean couldn’t line up a clear shot. Thinking quickly, he pointed the gun toward the ceiling and shot twice, the commotion enough to gain Lucifer’s attention. The shots, however, also caught Cas’ attention, and Dean watched, horrified, as Lucifer took the chance to clock Cas right in the face, twisting over him as he fell.

There was a hand in Dean’s hair, and his own gun pressed to his head. Lucifer had moved quickly - too quickly - and Dean knew that the press of hot metal to his temple meant that it was over.

Cas froze as he caught sight of them, color draining from his face.

“Lucifer, don’t. Please. Please, don’t - he’s-”

“I know what he is!” The Seraph shrieked. “My kin, my own blood, bound to a human! I always knew you’d fall low, Castiel, but I never thought it would come to this.”

Dean watched as trails of tears fell down Cas’ face, blood muddying them as they slipped down the skin of his cheek. “Lucifer, please.”

The grip in Dean’s hair tightened. “Join me, or he dies.”

“Anything,” Cas relented. “Anything. Please, just let him-”

It should never be said that Dean Winchester isn’t the type of man to go down swinging. In the duration of a few sentences between the brothers, Dean had reached down, procured the knife strapped to his boot, and, in a show of great strength, had wrenched his head from Lucifer’s grip, turned, and sunk the blade hilt-deep into the Seraph’s chest.

Lucifer slowed, turning his sights toward the blade buried in his heart. He blinked at it, as if he could will it away, then coughed ever so slightly, blood welling over his lip and dripping down to the floor. He stumbled a few steps backward, swaying enough that he fell to a knee.

Dean scrambled toward him, meaning to swipe the gun out of Lucifer’s hand, but the angel, even at the brink of death, was quick. He raised the pistol, aimed it at his brother, and squeezed the trigger.

Lucifer fell to the floor, gun thumping mutedly on the carpet.

But it was Dean, not Cas, that fell next.

The angel was at his side in an instant, a flurry of feathers. “Dean.” Cas’ voice was hoarse, wrecked. “Oh, God.”

“‘s okay, Cas,” Dean wheezed. He could feel the blood that had soaked into his shirt, sticky and hot. There was a sharp pain in his abdomen, and it hurt when he breathed.

Cas, above him, was shaking, crying. “Dean, don’t say-”

“‘s okay. He can’t hurt you. He can’t have you.”

Cas’ hand was warm against his cheek.

Dean coughed, already tasting blood. “Cas?”

The angel caught his gaze, and Dean felt a pang of guilt resonate within him, knowing that he’d caused the look on Cas’ face. “I’m here, Dean. I’m right here.”

Even through the pain, Dean smiled, “‘m glad I met you.”

Everything went black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter VII tags: blood, violence, hand-jobs, wink-kink


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, triggers/warnings are tagged at the BOTTOM of each chapter.

It wasn’t until the fifth day that Dean woke up. Cas, never having left his side for more than a moment, heaved a great sigh of relief when green eyes blinked rapidly.

“Where am I?”

Cas winced, noting how wrecked Dean’s voice sounded.

“Back at the bunker, you idjit.”

Dean’s head snapped to one side, but from the look Castiel caught, the human moved too fast. Dean didn’t bother to open his eyes again, instead bringing his hands up to his face and pressing the heels of his palms against his temples.

“Your angel here had enough smarts in him to give a call to the last person you talked to. You landed one with a brain, boy; good job.”

Castiel blushed, looked at his hands.

“What happened?”

That, apparently, was Bobby’s cue. He gave Dean’s shoulder a gentle pat, then started toward the door. “I’ll go call your brother and John.”

“Cas?”

Castiel looked up at Dean, unable to quell the feelings of both guilt and joy that welled up in him, guilt at having put Dean in harm’s way in the first place, and joy at finally seeing him awake.

“I used your phone and got Bobby. I told him you were hurt, and that I needed to know what to do. He asked some questions, to help ascertain whether or not I posed a threat to you, him, or the other Keepers, and apparently I passed the test. When he tried to explain where I needed to take you, I let him know that you... you likely weren’t going to make it, and that’s when I told him I was a Seraph.”

“He didn’t seem too surprised, did he?”

At that, Cas laughed. “No. I told him... told him about our bond.”

Cas could see the heat in Dean’s cheeks as he spoke. “He gave me the coordinates to the bunker, and I brought us here.”

Dean blinked up at him, confused. “How did I survive?”

Bringing himself over with a few, slow steps, Castiel sat next to Dean. He threaded their hands together as he searched for the right words to say.

“Cas?”

“I can’t think of a way to explain what I did in a manner that will make you understand that it was my own choice to give away what I did in order to save you.”

“...Cas?”

Their eyes caught. “You have my blood in your veins now. You’re no longer human, but you’re not Seraph, either. You’re somewhere in between.”

Dean’s shoulders sagged and he felt tears, unbidden, fall from his eyes.

“Cas.”

Cas smiled, bringing up one of Dean’s hands in both of his own, pressing a kiss to tender flesh. “I’ve only just found you. I’m not going to lose you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter VIII tags: none


	9. Author's Note

First and foremost, a huge shout-out to my fantastic artist, [Maria](http://bitchjerks.co.vu/), who is a god-damned angel. Her work is breathtaking, and I highly suggest you go check her stuff out.

Second, and likely slightly pressing: why Spokane?

I spent a good portion of my life in that city. I loved it; it’s history, it’s uniqueness, it’s charm. It’s a big little city, and if you ever find yourself with a chance to go, I highly suggest you do. Their food, their music, their theater; Spokane is a wonderful place, and I am glad I am able to say it was where I made my home for some time.

-Burger joint? - When Dean and Cas first make it into Spokane, they stop at a small, local fast-food place. If you’re familiar with the eatery, I wish your arteries good luck. If you’re not and you ever get the chance, try whatever you can. Trust me; everything is a grease-bomb, but it all tastes divine.

-Greenwood Cemetery: an actual location in Spokane; one of the city’s oldest cemeteries, Greenwood is nestled into pine-covered hillsides. The lower portion of the cemetery has graves that go back 250+ years (for the Pacific Northwest area, that’s fairly old). Several of the local native tribe (Spokanee, Salish) were laid to rest there as well, leading some to believe that ghost/spiritual activity is more frequent than in other places. The caretakers in my story are not, or in any way, related to those that have or currently take care of the land, and were a fabrication for use in fiction.

-Thousand Steps (the haunted staircase): the origin of the stairs remains an undocumented mystery. Even so, this particular staircase is thought of as haunted by many local residents. Actual steps is counted closer to 60ish.

Here is a picture of the staircase, after much of the overgrowth has been stipped away in the spring:

Felicity: Thought to be the name of one of the spirits that haunt the area. There are several young girls by such name buried at Greenwood.

More to come - I am currently working on a sequel to this particular piece, though the ‘when’ is certainly up for debate. I’m hopeful it will be in the next year, likely sooner than the 2016DCBB, but I can make no promises; I work a job in a flourishing industry, and am raising a family, so we'll simply see when we get there, now won't we?

Thanks so much for giving my piece a read. I hope you enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter I tags: graphic depictions of gore, blood, violence, death idolization, sweeping mentions of depression, possible idolization/mentions of past suicide and/or self-harming incidents


End file.
